Burned
by Amory Sparkly Bat
Summary: While chasing down a pyromaniac with a fondness for burning down museums, Neal is forced to go undercover as a prostitute. When things go wrong, Neal & Peter must face up to the fact that once a fire's kindled, it's hard to put out without getting burned.
1. Chapter 1: Ignition

**If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)**  
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**Title:** Burned  
><strong>Author:<strong> Puck (**pucktheperv on LJ and Tumblr**)  
><strong>Rating<strong>: NC-17

**Warnings:** Angst, Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, prostitution, mentions of underage prostitution, fire play. Peter/Neal (with Elizabethan consent! ;P)

**Summary:** While chasing down a pyromaniac with a fondness for burning down museums, Neal is forced to go undercover as a prostitute, igniting fears about his relationship with Peter that he thought he'd put out long ago. When things go very wrong, both Neal and Peter have to face up to the fact that once a fire is kindled, it is hard to quell-especially without getting burned.

**Author's Notes:** I'm sorry, but I love angsty h/c whore!fic. And Neal would look so preeetty with glitter in his hair.

o o o

**Chapter 1: Ignition**

_Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell. -Joan Crawford_

"Okay, everyone," Peter said as he walked into the conference room, pausing to slide a thick folder down the table to Diana, who caught it nimbly. "I've got it." He grinned broadly as he switched on the projector. "I've found our in!"

"Thank God," Neal said with exaggerated relief as he smoothly caught the rubber band ball he'd been tossing into the air. "Please, Peter," he looked up with wide eyes, his interest way too sincere to be anything but faked. "Enlighten us."

"I'll do that," Peter snapped back, using the opportunity to push Neal's feet off the table. Neal just smirked in return, tossing the damn rubber band ball up in the air again. Peter had a sudden urge to just smack him in the back of the head like a misbehaving toddler. Not that there was any point. Neal would probably enjoy having proof that he'd gotten under Peter's skin, even if that proof was a bruise on his scalp. Better to just ignore him completely. Like a time out, minus the standing in the corner thing. Not that Peter wouldn't enjoy making Neal stand in the corner—in his opinion men who acted like five year olds deserved to be treated like five year olds—but he was pretty sure that would fall under "less than professional". He already spent enough of his time doing less than professional things with Neal, like breaking into buildings and cracking safes and staring at the really attractive line of his jaw when he should be doing paperwork. Er, not the last one. But the others.

"So, we all know that Melbane's house is practically Fort Knox—"

"Fort Knox actually has some serious gaps in security," Neal cut in, using his pretending-to-be-helpful-but-really-being-snarky voice. "You would be surprised. I would say Melbane's house falls more under the Ben Gurion International Airport category. Complex but orderly, contained but functional, secure but workable, and a little bit terrifying if they happen to mistake your cologne bottle for a hand grenade." He paused, a thoughtful look passing over his face. "But I doubt Melbane searches people for hand grenades. We could probably get in his place that way. Blowing half the house down really leaves the area open for investigation."

"Thank you for that observation, Neal," Peter said dryly, his tone a warning to the probie who was chuckling in the back of the room. Neal did *not* need any encouragement. "My point being, up until now, bugging his house without his knowledge has only been a dream. The man's so damn paranoid that the flower pot on his porch has a hidden camera-AND a little sign warning away 'The Man'. After the sale Melbane made last week, Judge Kellman granted us a warrant to search his house, but, honestly, I don't give much of a damn about some small-time fence right now. I want the guys he's working with." Peter hit a button on his laptop, bringing up an image of a building consumed in flames. "The painting he fenced last week was from one of our earlier fires, and word on the street is that he's in cohorts with our fire-starters and that they sell only to him."

"No fence with any respect at all would buy from those sons of bitches," Neal said, face troubled. "I can't believe they burned all that art."

"The point is," Peter said before Neal could go off on yet another rant about art being the conservation of an artists blooming soul within the magnificent glory of their deepest strokes or whatever, "these guys meet Melbane at his place and, since he is a complete and total loner to a disturbing degree—not to mention the paranoid as hell thing—any attempt to bug the place by pulling the usual lawn guy, maid, any kind of help, is useless. This guy may be a millionaire, but apparently he washes his own undies because we haven't even seen him send a single suit out to the cleaners. Every day he heads to the office at exactly seven-fifteen, spends all day absolutely alone in his locked office, then heads directly home at six o'clock. No dinners with ladies, no trips to the opera, no poker nights with the boys. Just him alone in his little medieval fortress of a house, doing God knows what."

"But if he's so damn regular," one of the agents spoke up, furrowing his brow thoughtfully, "how come we can't just slip in during the day and drop the bugs? I mean, from seven-fifteen to six o'clock is quite the window." He nodded vaguely toward Neal. "Especially since we got Lex Luthor over here. I realize his security rocks, but so does the Bank of America's over on 43rd and it got hit just last week."

Neal let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Are you really comparing this house to a Bank of America? Banks are some of the easiest hits. They're like people who use the same password over and over—once you crack the code, you're set, you can hit any branch in North America and they'll all respond in the same way. Melbane's house is uncrackable." Neal began to idly toss his rubber band ball from hand to hand, chewing lightly on his lower lip, his eyes slightly out of focused as he thought. Peter had to admit that, as much as he believed in doing things the honorable way, it was interesting to watch that brilliant mind work.

"I thought nothing was uncrackable for you, Neal," Diana said dryly, lip twitching in amusement as Neal glared at her.

"Okay, maybe not uncrackable, but we'd need the kind of information that would take weeks of surveillance to get. See, Melbane's what those of us in the business call an 'Old Faithful.' Most people now rely on complicated electronic systems run by central computers. Heavy duty keypads, digital locks with thousands of rotating codes, fingerprint and voice recognition software—that kind of thing. Now, Melbane does have all of that, at least from what I can tell from the diagnostics on his electricity use. Either he's sporting a top notch system or he's wallpapered his house in flat screens and plays the Discovery Channel 24/7 on every one. Your average thief would tuck his tail and run. But that kind of security… when you get down to it, it's all a bunch of ones and zeros in trillions and trillions of different sequences. If you run all the data through a high-tech enough computer, you can crack it. But Melbane's smart. He's double layered the system. Beneath the million dollar gadgets he's got the kind of thing you've got at say… a prison."

Diana raised an eyebrow. "A prison?"

Neal nodded. "Peter, put up the computer image of Melbane's house."

Peter obeyed, a 3-D image of Melbane's house coming up.

"See the oversized cameras everywhere?" Neal pointed above the front door. "That thing records to VHS." He looked over at Peter. "Peter. How did you catch me?"

"I used your oversized ego to outsmart you?"

Neal let out an annoyed sigh as Peter smirked at him. "Seriously, how did you catch me, the second time? I could have been anywhere. How did you find out where I was?"

Peter frowned. "I knew your weakness. Kate. She's always been your soft spot." Though God knew why. Peter still had yet to figure out Kate's redeeming qualities. Neal may have loved her, but Peter was still not convinced she had loved him as much as Neal had believed. Peter was sorry she was dead, but not sorry that Neal was free of her.

"Yeah," Neal agreed, "but how did you know that I'd be at her apartment? Why wouldn't we be on the first chartered flight to the Swiss Alps that we could catch?"

"Well… I saw her on the security feed. She left you and never came back, so obviously you two weren't running off together. Not when you could have served three more months and been a free man."

"Exactly!" Neal sat back in his seat, grinning like Peter had won some sort of prize. "You saw the tapes. The old, shitty VHS tapes that get shipped off every week to some storage facility in nowhere land. That system hadn't been updated since Mark Wahlburg was Marky Mark. I could do a lot of things, but I couldn't fix those tapes. So you were able to look back to the very day that Kate took off."

"True," Peter said, remembering with some amusement Neal's face on fast rewind, beard disappearing. A beard was really not his look. It was almost as bad as Peter's moustache had been.

"Under his Fortune 500 system, Melbane has an antiquated setup, not to actually keep people out, but so he'll know if someone *tries* to get in. People as paranoid as Melbane are usually less worried about people gaining actual entrance than they are people sneaking in and spying on them. All that Orwellian future crap. You want to get past this sytsem, well, it's not so tough." Neal smirked at Peter, obviously enjoying the chance to recap on his escape. His *attempted* escape, anyway.

"You use a cassette player to forge a keycard, make sure you keep your face in enough shadow that the shitty lens can't make heads or tails of you, and use lock picks or even brute force against any doors that aren't automated. To make it look like you were never there, however, you would have to get into the main recording area—if there is only one. Since each camera records to its own tape, old systems often required multiple headquarters. Then you would have to doctor all the tapes to look like you were never there, something that is much easier said than done. The world before Photoshop was a tricky place to forge. It would take at least a couple of hours to do all the tapes, even for someone who really knew what they were doing." He shrugged. "So, yeah, give me a couple weeks to figure out exactly what kind of systems he's running in that place and I could probably be in and out like a ghost. But not the invisible kind. The old system would either have me on tape or have been obviously doctored."

"Okay…" Jones said, drawing out the word, "but if we can't go undercover and we can't trick the system, how are we gonna plant the bugs without tipping Melbane off that we've been in his place?"

Peter watched in amusement as the whole room turned as one to look at Neal and he just sat there, blinking.

"I have no idea," he admitted finally, when it became obvious that the Harvard crew was waiting on him for an answer. "What are you all looking at me for? Peter's the one who said he had an in. You want to take it from here, boss man?" The man gestured dramatically, like he was introducing some kind of show star. He really was a diva.

Peter smiled, selfishly pleased at there was at least one thing in the universe that Neal Caffrey couldn't figure out in 7.5 seconds or less. "Yeah, I'll take it from here." He nodded at the file he'd sent Diana's way. "It seems that our loner actually does have some need for normal human interaction." He paused, lip curling up a little. "Actually, maybe 'normal' is too nice a word. Let's just say that a man by any other name is still a man."

"What does that even *mean*?" Neal questioned the agent next to him as Diana made a face over the file she'd just opened.

"Oh, damn," she said, voice sounding a little disgusted as she stared down at the file in her hands. "This is so not what I want to be seeing. It's like the absolute antithesis to 'double the fun.' Double the gross, maybe. Is that kid even legal?"

"What the hell?" Jones said, scooting his chair over to get a look at the file. His eyes widened and he grimaced. "Oh, damn! Damn, Peter! What the hell is this crap?"

"That is our in," Peter said simply, watching with a morbid sense of curiosity as the file was handed around the room, the agents all making faces and declaring the need for a mind rinse. When it finally came to Neal he took the folder with a smirk on his face, obviously eager to see what kind of pictures would make ten FBI agents want to cover their eyes and moan. The smirk quickly melted into a tight frown as he began to flip silently through the files, studying the photos.

Hm. Not really the reaction he's expected from Neal. He wasn't quite sure *what* he'd been expected, but he'd assumed that, at the very least, the somewhat prissy man would be offended, if not by the actions then by the mere idea of someone doing something like that up against the side of a Dumpster. It was not a particularly romantic scene to begin with, plus Neal was not a big fan of dirt. Once he'd stepped in a mud puddle up to his ankle and spent the rest of the day whining like a baby. It had been annoying as hell, but also kind of cute.

"I take it that kid down there isn't polishing his shoes?" Neal said, not sounding as if he particularly cared, though he was still frowning as he studied the sequence of pictures they'd gotten off a camera in the red-light district. The pictures were in black and white and the images were somewhat blurred, but it was clear enough to make out the two figures in the alley, one leaning heavily against the side of a Dumpster, the other on their knees in front of him. Like a perverted flip book, each image was just slightly different from the last, but there was no question about what was going on.

"No, definitely not polishing his shoes. Polishing other things maybe. But the guy is definitely Melbane." Peter sighed. "It seems we were a little lax with our surveillance. The guy's schedule is so minute by minute that, after a couple of days of noting that he watered the plant on his porch at exactly 6:20, we shut down 24/7 surveillance since we weren't learning much from the van. But apparently his obsessive compulsive schedule includes a regular visit to a street corner outside Queens every Tuesday just after midnight. He got a parking ticket last week, which came up in our systems, and good old Joe from Big Pay Pawn was more than happy to lend us his security tapes to keep our eyes off of all the stuff he had in there that 'fell off a truck,' if you know what I mean."

"And this helps us how, exactly?" Diana questioned, obviously not pleased at the situation.

"Well, we had NYPD pick up the hooker," Peter said, bending over his computer and bringing up the young man's picture. He was very pretty, with pale brown skin, full lips, and wide eyes. Good looks couldn't hide the tired, dull cast to his face, however, and it wasn't hard to tell that this one was old beyond his years. "Name's Carson Giles. Just turned twenty. According to him, Melbane comes around one a week like clockwork. They have a little hanky panky—"

"Hanky panky? Is that what they're calling street corner oral these days?" Neal shook his head, looking like he thought Peter must be the oldest person alive. "Personally I've always thought that 'hokey pokey' is more descriptive, and you can even hum the song when you get fucked up the butt."

Peter's brow furrowed at the sharp edge to Neal's voice. "Excuse me if I gloss over the details," he said flatly. "You want details, rent a porno. Now shut up and let me finish."

Neal just scowled at him, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that made Peter wonder what, exactly, he'd done wrong so very wrong now. Neal had been the one to make the dirty comment.

"The point is, aside from the occasional blow job in an alley if they're short on time, Melbane usually takes him home for their Tuesday tryst then puts him in a cab back."

"Wait," Jones said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you implying that you want somebody to go undercover as the hooker?"

Peter shrugged. "It's our only way in. We made a deal with the hooker—he finds himself a new corner for the next few weeks and we won't charge him with solicitation."

"How kind of you," Neal said dryly.

Peter rolled his eyes. "It *is* kind of us. He's breaking the law. Anyway, my point is, Melbane likes his precious schedule. He won't want to waste time looking for his toy if we have something just as good to offer him."

"And who, exactly, is going to be playing this hooker?" Jones asked doubtfully.

Peter's eyes slid over to Neal and Jones let out a laugh. "You gotta be kiddin' me! Fancy pants over there? Maybe when you need an escort that retails for eighteen-hundred a night not including the cost of champagne or flavored condoms. But on a street corner? Please."

Eighteen-hundred a night? Wow, Jones had some high standards for Neal. Peter's eyes danced over the man's very attractive lips. Okay, maybe eighteen-hundred was reasonable. Or possibly the goddamn sale price.

"Neal best fits the profile for our boy. Attractive, slim, not particularly threatening. You have a better suggestion, you let me know."

"Okay, whoa, wait up there, cowboy," Neal said, holding up his hands. "I don't remember volunteering for this! I'm sorry, Peter, but I don't do street corners. Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman' is not my style. Not going to happen."

Peter looked at him, a little surprised. Neal usually jumped at the chance to pretend he was somebody else. And, yeah, maybe this was a little unconventional, but it was just undercover work. It wasn't like they actually expected him to start taking clients or whatever. "What, you're saying you won't do it? It's not like it's going to be a tough gig-you flirt like most people breathe."

Neal scowled. "Very funny, Peter. You can make me come to work, you can make me file papers, you can make me fill up your fucking coffee cup, but you can't sell my ass to some psycho just so you can close some stupid case."

"Some stupid case?" Peter said, surprised at the intensity of Neal's tone. "Just 'some stupid case'? This from the man who spent two hours last night talking about how our perps should be crucified for what they're doing?"

Neal made a frustrated sound. "They should be! I mean, these guys *burn down* museums just so they can sneak out a couple of masterpieces! The stuff they steal may get the highest black market value, but the stuff they destroy is priceless! It's not just paint on a canvas, it's a piece of that artists soul. No one with *any* respect for art would *ever* pull stunts like that, not for the Mona Lisa herself. I want to stop these guys and you're right—Melbane is the way to get to them. He's obviously the one buying and fencing the pieces. But there has to be another way. There has to be. Because I'm *not* doing this." He glared at Peter as if daring the man to argue.

"For God's sake, Neal, it's just an undercover job—"

"As a *whore*." His jaw tightened, the movement reminding Peter of just how attractive a jaw it was. Damn it, this was *not* the time for this.

"I think you can handle it. What was it that guy who stole the Haustenburg said? You're a butterfly who flits from flower to flower?" Peter shook his head, chuckling a little at the memory.

"Are you saying you think I'm a whore?"

Peter's eyes widened at the furious look on Neal's face. "What? No? No! When the hell did I say that?" Seriously, sometimes this man was worse than a woman.

"Hey, look," Diana interrupted, holding up a hand. "Considering that pretty much the only time us ladies get to go undercover is when they need a hooker, I can understand your reservations, Neal. But we won't let anything bad happen to you. It's just a way into Melbane's house. I know it's awkward, and not the kind of thing guys are used to dealing with, but we'll be there to back you up."

"Neal, who else are we supposed to send in?" Peter asked. "Jones? Melbane would probably run screaming. We need someone… well, someone prettier." And Neal was nothing if not pretty.

Neal's eyebrows shot up, mouth dropping open. "Someone *prettier*?" An upset look came over his face. "So you don't even need my skills. You just want me for my pretty face."

Jones snorted loudly and Neal scowled at him.

"Just want you for your… no we don't just want you for your pretty face!" Peter rubbed his forehead tiredly. "For the love of God, Neal, this is the FBI, not the Miss America pageant."

"Though, if it was, you would totally be wearing the sash," Jones put in very unhelpfully, earning himself a glare from Peter.

"We need you because you're the one who fits the profile, okay?" Peter said, trying to sound soothing. "It is not a personal attack! Besides, I thought you enjoyed a con!"

"Believe it or not, putting on a crop top and panties then flashing my junk for any man with a twenty is really not my idea of a good time." Neal shook his head. "Get Jones to do it. Get the new probie to do it. Get goddamn Hughes to do it for all I care. But I'm not doing it." He stood abruptly, grabbing his jacket and somehow managing to pull it on gracefully despite the fact that he looked ready to spit fire. "I'm taking an early lunch. I'll see you later." With one last glare at Peter he stalked off, slamming the conference room door behind him.

Peter let out a moan, rubbing at his forehead. "Diana. You want to tell me what I did this time?"

The woman just shook her head, looking slightly amused. "Sorry, boss. You're gonna have to muddle through this one on your own."

"Wonderful," Peter muttered, shutting his laptop. "All of you, get gone. I'll talk to Neal and we'll reconvene in three hours."

The agents all nodded and started shuffling their things around like obedient puppies. At least some people still listened to him. Now all he had to do was deal with Neal.


	2. Chapter 2: From the Frying Pan

_See Chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

_.  
><em>

**Chapter 2: From the Frying Pan**

Neal sighed as he stared out across the street, wishing that the ice cream shop wasn't fifteen feet out of his radius. It was pretty hot, for New York anyway, and he could use some frozen yogurt. Ice cream made a much better comfort food than tuna fish.

He idly took a bite of his sandwich, despite the fact that he wasn't particularly hungry, especially not for tuna. His stomach was churning, his nerves on the edge after their little meeting today.

Neal couldn't believe how badly he'd lost it in front of Peter. Shouting things about not wanting to wear panties and flash his junk? His cheeks were red just from the memory. That was *not* how Neal Caffrey behaved. He was classic yet casual, smooth and always cool. Not red faced and panicked as his stupid brain helpfully provided image after image of the scene in those photos, only the boy was Neal Caffrey and the man… Well, the man was *not* Joseph Melbane.

This was just absurd. Peter wanted him to go undercover—that's all it was. Neal was one-hundred percent sure that Peter had no clue that the mere idea set the easy bond between him and Neal back about two years. Back to that day when all he really knew was that this man who had chased him for so very long and who knew everything about him to a disturbing degree was coming to take him away and there was nothing he could do about it because it was exactly what he had asked for.

Neal wasn't the most trusting man in the world, but he had no reason to be. No one in his life had *ever* given him a reason to be. Not even Kate and Mozzie. There was a reason he hadn't told either of them where he kept his stash. It wasn't really *their* fault—Neal had lost the ability to trust long before he met either of them—but in the end it had protected him.

Peter, though… Peter he was comfortable with. He probably trusted Peter more than he'd ever trusted anyone. He trusted that Peter would do what he said he was going to do, even up to putting Neal back in jail if he stepped out of line. But the point wasn't that the thing you trusted a person about was a good thing—simply being able to trust that they would do what they said was what counted, even if that thing was sticking him back in the pen.

Maybe that was why Peter's casual willingness to stick Neal on a street corner had been such a shock. He'd trusted Peter to be above that, and everything related to that. It had resurrected a fear he had buried after only a couple months of working with Peter. He'd written it off as foolishness, his initial worry that Peter might want more from Neal than just his professional help. Now, all of a sudden, said foolishness was starting to look a lot like reality.

There he was, being absurd again. Neal *wasn't* in that position—it was an undercover op, not a blow job in the bathroom. It wasn't like Peter had walked up to him with a hearty, 'Hey buddy, I'm going to be pimping you out tonight. See you at seven.' They needed to get into Melbane's house if they wanted to stop the fires. But Neal really didn't want Peter to think about him like that. Because if he started thinking of him like that, then he might not stop and Neal might find himself playing the part of the go-to get-off-man—the guy you went to when you just wanted to get off, when you wanted stuff your wife wouldn't give you. The one you could do anything with and they'd never complain.

If Peter was going to think of him sexually, Neal wanted it to be in a good way. That's how he imagined it at night, anyway. He imagined Peter's big hands pushing him down onto the bed, firm but gentle, and spreading Neal's legs apart. He imagined that Peter would take the time to make sure it didn't hurt, or not too bad anyway. Never, ever more than Neal could stand. Never because he wanted to see Neal cry. He imagined that Peter would kiss him and run a hand through his hair and tell him that he was beautiful, not in a demeaning way, but because he really thought Neal was beautiful. And then Peter would make love to him and Neal… Neal would enjoy the feel of Peter inside of him, would enjoy the way Peter's hands caressed him like he was something special. And then Peter would come, and his whole face would be filled with pleasure and he would tell Neal how it was only him that made him feel this way which would make Neal feel so wanted. And then… Well, Neal had a hard time imagining what would come then. He'd never really enjoyed being with a man in a physical sense. When he came it was always from some sort of rough physical stimulation that he couldn't control, something that he didn't want. But even if he didn't get off, Neal wouldn't care. He would just be happy to know that Peter had enjoyed being with him, with Neal Caffrey, not with some nameless body. Then Peter would wrap his big arms around Neal and Neal would feel safe and satisfied.

Hey, a man could dream, right?

Neal knew his little fascination with Peter was insane. The man didn't even look at him like that. He was happily married to what had to be the most amazing wife in the world—Kate had never been half that supportive or caring—and he was most definitely straight. But maybe the fact that Peter didn't look at him like that was part of it. Plenty of men had looked at Neal like that, but he'd never wanted them to touch him.

If Peter had told him to, Neal would have slept with him the second Peter had handed him his get out of jail free card. He'd gotten what he'd wanted, time to pay up, right? Neal would have done it, but he wouldn't have enjoyed it.

Neal was used to people taking advantage of him and, while he couldn't always stop it, he didn't have to enjoy it. But that didn't happen. Instead Peter had treated him like a cross between a misbehaving teenager and a good friend. And Neal… Neal had kind of liked that, though he would *never* admit it. The fatherly aspect made him feel safe—it was clear that Peter wanted to protect him from everything, especially himself—and the friend part… Well, Peter Burke was a great friend to have. But just about the time Neal had come to the conclusion that he had nothing to fear from Peter sexually, realizing that the man didn't even see him that way, Neal had actually started to wish that there *was* something between them in a sexual sense. No, not in a sexual sense. In a *romantic* sense.

Neal remembered precisely the first time he'd thought of Peter in a way other than a friend. They'd been sitting on the couch at Peter's house. El was in the kitchen cooking something that smelled delicious while Peter sipped a beer, his eyes on the TV, watching cars go around and around and around in a concrete ring as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Neal had been watching *him*, trying to figure why, exactly, anyone could find this tedious so-called 'sport' entertaining, when Peter had leaned back and tossed an arm around Neal like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It had taken Neal everything he had in him not to physically flinch—large men throwing their arms around him in confining ways was not one of his favorite things. But Peter hadn't even seemed to notice he'd done it. They'd just sat there, Peter's big fingers idly tracing patterns on Neal's shoulder as he continued to watch the race, occasionally letting out a whoop when someone crashed into a wall.

Neal had slowly relaxed, a warm feeling growing in his chest at the realization that he was so much a part of Peter's life that the man would just throw an arm around him like… like he was family.

It was then that he'd looked up, eyes widening as he saw El standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching them. Neal had instantly panicked as a rush of memories flooded him. Everything about the situation, from the beer to loosen inhibitions to the big hand possessive on his shoulder to the woman standing in the doorway, eyes wide, was like a toned down version of the day he'd lost his home forever.

Neal shuddered slightly as he remembered that day, his mom's figure backlit in the doorway. Her face had been hidden from him by the man on top of him, thrusting, but he'd known she was there. He remembered the way her screams had sounded. Then his step-father had turned and Neal could see the horror on her face. There had been an instant, just one little instant, where he'd thought that maybe she would help him. Then his step-father had started spewing lies about how Neal had seduced him and how it wasn't his fault, the boy was just a whore. Next thing he knew his bag was packed and he was out the door at the young age of fourteen.

Elizabeth had just smiled at him, however, her sweet face lighting up as she called out that dinner was ready and that if Peter wanted a single bite then he'd better get his booty off that couch and come sit at the table like a grown up. She was so sweet.

Neal tapped his fingers lightly on the table, taking a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He needed to relax. Peter wasn't doing anything to him. It was just an op and Neal was the best man they had for the job. He needed to grin and bear it. He would *have* to grin and bear it. After all, he'd flat out told Peter that he wasn't going to do it and the man had refused to listen.

…Somehow Neal had really convinced himself that Peter was the kind of man who would listen when you were afraid.

The bitterness was hard to choke down, though. The safe little world he'd built for himself over the past two years had come crashing down on him in a few minutes. He would have to go out there and flaunt himself in front of half the agents at the Bureau. He had no choice. Neal wondered if they'd ever respect him again. Probably not. But he had no right to be bitter, did he? Peter had given him what he'd asked for—this was just a part of the deal. Sex was now part of the deal. What was it Peter always said? To cowboy up? Ha.

Once again he'd be all alone in the night waiting for someone's fat hands to touch him, and it would be all his fault.

Neal let out a choked laugh at the thought. It sounded kind of twisted. Maybe he should see a therapist. It *was* true, though. It was his fault and it really wasn't fair to Peter for him to be thinking this way, trying to push the blame over to the other man. He'd offered to help Peter on his cases and this was a case he needed helping on. He had every right to make him do it. Neal was a victim to no one other than his own damn crimes.

"Can I sit down?"

Neal started, blinking up in surprise at the sight of Peter's hulking form. He'd been so buried in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed the man approaching.

"It's a free country," Neal replied lightly, though his stomach was churning again. Just that morning he had been so comfortable talking to Peter. It had been a breeze, their back and forth bantering amusing and somewhat exciting. Now… Now he felt like he was back in his orange scrubs, looking at this dangerous agent's broad shoulders and muscular arms, wondering if he wouldn't be better off in prison, even as he practically begged the man to stick a leash on him and tie him in his backyard.

"You went pretty far for lunch," Peter said as he sat down on the little metal chair across from Neal, his voice a little too casual.

"I'm still in my radius," Neal said stiffly, though he knew that he was only a few feet from the no-no zone. He had spent several days carefully scouting exactly where he could travel without enticing the Feds.

"Didn't say you weren't," Peter replied with a shrug, picking up the menu Neal had abandoned. "Anything good here?"

"Not really. Their salad comes from a bag and their sandwiches look like someone stepped on them. The coffee's actually not horrendous, though."

"Hm." Peter waved their waitress over. "I'll have the deviled ham."

"Of course," Neal murmured.

"And lemonade. Thank you."

Peter turned his attention back to Neal, face unreadable. "Okay, Neal—"

"I want some rules," Neal burst in before Peter had a chance to talk. There was no need to hear him speak. Neal got it, he didn't have a choice. He understood. He didn't need Peter to tell him. No, he didn't *want* Peter to tell him, because he knew the words would be burned into his head forever. They always were.

"_Please, I don't want to…"_

"_Did I ask what you fucking wanted? Nobody gave you a choice, slut."_

A little wrinkle appeared between Peter's eyes as he studied Neal, eyes obviously searching for something, though Neal didn't know what he expected to find. "Rules, Neal?" The words were careful, like Peter was treading on ice.

Neal nodded, a little too quickly, then forced himself to reign his panic in. "That's right. I want some rules. Before I do this… con." It was hard to call it a con. It felt too real. But then any time you sold your ass to someone, it was sort of a con. You pretended to like it and they pretended they weren't paying you and everybody was happy. Not really, but close enough.

"Okay," Peter said slowly, looking a little confused. "Tell me what that means. What 'rules' do you want?"

Neal paused at that, unsure. The words had just sort of come out; he hadn't actually thought about what rules he wanted. He'd never been given a chance to make the rules before. That was always somebody else's job. Someone bigger, stronger, more powerful. "I…" He thought quickly. "I want a safe word. I want a word that, when I say it, you'll come in and get me whether the job is done or not." Peter was frowning and Neal licked his lips nervously. Maybe that was asking for a little much. They couldn't blow the op just because he was feeling queasy. "Okay, maybe not a word where you'll come get me no matter what. But a word where you'll try and come get me if it won't mess everything up. And when it's over, I want the tapes destroyed. I don't want myself on tape where people could listen to them for… reasons other than taking down Melbane." He swallowed hard. "And I don't care what he wants, we use a condom. If he won't use a condom, then it's over. We find another way." Neal had enough close calls in his past. He didn't need that worry. "Oh, and I want the next day off." So that he could break down in the privacy of his own place.

Neal sat back, jutting his chin in the air and practically daring Peter to argue.

The look on Peter's face, however, had gone from confused to furious—his step-father used to look like that—and before he even thought about it, Neal was taking it back.

"Or… or maybe I'll just do whatever you want. It doesn't matter anyway. I don't care. Why would anybody care?"

"Gee, I don't know, Neal, maybe because you're my friend?"

Neal's eyes widened. He hadn't meant to say that last part out loud.

"For God's sake, no wonder you didn't want to do this!" Peter's face was a shocking shade of red but, luckily, his anger was apparently not aimed at Neal. The menu was taking quite a beating, however. "You're not going to have to sleep with the man, Neal! That is *not* the plan. That was *never* the plan. You're going to get him to take you to his house, drop a few bugs wherever you can, and get the fuck out. If he even *touches* you I'll… I'll… Well, I don't know what I'll do but it won't be pretty."

Neal's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

Peter sighed and took a long sip of the lemonade the waitress had just put in front of him, obviously trying to calm himself. He set the glass down a little too hard and Neal jumped. "I really can't believe you think I would force you to have sex with some *man*!" He paused, thinking over the words. "Or a woman, but especially a man! Neal, the plan is simple. You get him to take you home, you plant bugs, you leave."

"I… But… But he's taking me home for sex, Peter," Neal said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Once you go with them, you can't decide to pick up and leave. You have to give them what they want." And if what they wanted was a little beyond what you were comfortable with, well, it was your fault for going with them in the first place.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "That's really what you think? I thought you were a romantic. You think that just because some whore goes home with a guy, they gotta put out or else?"

No. Well, yes, if it was *him*, but not if it was, say, some poor twelve year old girl. Either way, it didn't matter. "Peter, it doesn't matter what I think on the topic. It matters what Melbane thinks. If I go in there… I'm gonna have to let him do what he wants."

"Like hell you are," Peter replied, voice brisk. "You drop some bugs then fake a headache or something, get in a cab, and leave Melbane alone with his left hand. I would *never* let some bastard like Melbane hurt you. I care about you."

Neal had opened his mouth to protest, but closed it at the words, surprised by the warm feeling spreading through his chest. God, he was like a pitiful puppy. Give him a pat on the head and watch him lap up the attention. But still… it felt good. Peter was more of a slug them in the shoulder type than he was a talker. For him to say he cared… It stroked Neal's ego. Or maybe his heart, but saying ego made him feel like less of a loser.

Peter cared about him. This… it wasn't vindictive. It wasn't a way to bring Neal down. He just wanted his help, like the time Diana had gone in as an escort. Peter sure as hell hadn't expected her to sleep with anyone. Neal had just assumed he was different. He wasn't a woman, for one thing, and this wouldn't be an expensive room at a fancy hotel. Peter hadn't chosen him because "whore" and "Neal" were synonymous in his head. Peter had chosen him because he thought Neal would pull it off the best, totally naive to the reality that, if Neal went in, he would have to fuck the guy. Which he would—Neal had no doubt about that. He'd spent enough time on street corners to know that if they took you to *their* place, they were serious, and once you got there… Well, you would be leaving when they decided you could.

The real question being, would Neal risk being forced to do something he'd sworn he'd never do again just because Peter Burke asked him to? Sadly, the answer was probably yes.

"You know what, Neal?" Peter said, his face back to its normal color, thank God. "Maybe this isn't such a great idea anyway. I… I'm not sure I want you out there. You obviously think you're going to get hurt—"

"That's not what I said," Neal protested.

Peter reached over, casually placing a hand on Neal's forearm like it was nothing. "Look, you think about it and, whatever you decide, it's what we'll go with, okay? If you're not up to it, we'll figure out someone else tomorrow, okay? Just give it some thought. It's your choice." With those words he stood, giving Neal's arm one last squeeze. "I've got to get back to the Bureau. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?" He smirked and nodded toward the Ben & Jerry's across the street—just outside Neal's radius. "But don't let your love of frozen yogurt tempt you to do evil."

Neal gave him a small smile, feeling as if the weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "I'll do my best."

0 o 0 o 0

Peter wiped at the sweat on his brow as he avoided collision with yet another taxi. Thankfully the little dot blinking on the map he'd pulled up on his phone had finally stopped moving. Peter had really begun to worry that Neal was going to flout the rules and go outside of his radius, just as a nice little 'fuck you' to Peter.

Peter still wasn't sure what had upset the man so badly. He'd actually given in and called El for advice—she was so much better at this stuff than he was—but all she'd had to say was something along the lines of, "Well, hon, don't you think maybe Neal would have appreciated being asked before you told everyone that he was going to be playing a male prostitute?" Yeah, okay, he got that now. He could see that. It was kind of an awkward situation and Peter knew Neal got enough flack about his sexuality from some of the other agents just because he was artsy and dressed fancy. As if that had anything to do with his sexuality.

It was crystal clear that Neal Caffrey liked women. He attracted them like flies to sexy-man honey. Constant flirtation. He was always checking out the ladies, everywhere they went. Just because he was handsome and stylish didn't mean he was a homo. Just like finding your friend and partner maybe a little attractive didn't mean *you* were a homo. After all, who wouldn't find a guy like Neal attractive? And Peter *did* find Neal attractive.

El had been the one to call him on it, actually, and, if she hadn't, Peter probably wouldn't ever have admitted it to *himself*, much less to anyone else. The guy… he just *shined.* Being around him was… exciting. It really didn't have anything to do with how he *looked*. Peter had been attracted by him long before he'd ever (knowingly) seen him. Chasing Neal Caffrey had been a thrill. The man was absolutely brilliant, and Peter had been impressed. The truth was, if Neal hadn't been so desperate to get back with Kate, Peter wasn't sure he'd have ever caught him. A mind like that was challenging to work against and, more importantly, a hell of a lot of fun to work with.

It had been easy to ignore it when Neal was on the run. Okay, yeah, so he talked about the guy like they were friends and got excited when a new case came up with Neal's name on it. It didn't matter, because he was going to put him away. That was his job. The chase was exciting, the catch was even better, but after that… Their interaction was done with, over.

Peter's life had become a lot duller after he'd caught Neal, that was for sure. None of the cases crossing his desk were anywhere near the challenge that Neal was. Peter, well, he'd missed him. He missed their strange communication, he'd missed the adrenaline rush of thwarted arrests, he'd missed working backward to unravel the mystery that was Neal's mind. He'd assumed that he'd just have to move on—Neal was in prison and that part of his life was over. It was time to find a new bad guy to chase.

Little did he know.

Now here he was, almost a decade from the day he first heard the name James Bonds, working side by side with Neal. He got to see that quick, calculating mind in action, but he also got to see a new part of Neal, one that he hadn't known as well before: His charm. Because Neal Caffrey was, if nothing else, a charmer. He had charmed Peter anyway, despite the fact that the man drove him crazy sometimes.

Peter wasn't sure when it started—he'd always spent a lot of time watching Neal, so staring at him during work hours wasn't so out of place. He knew when he'd first recognized it, however. They'd been standing at the coffee maker together and Peter had reached out and touched Neal's wrist. No reason, he just felt like doing it. Neal had looked at him kind of oddly, Peter had moved his hand, and the day had gone on. The next day, he'd put a hand on Neal's back while they walked and, the next, he'd squeezed his arm as he passed by. It had freaked Peter out, enough that he started giving Neal the cold shoulder. He was not a touchy guy. He didn't *touch* people for no reason—and there sure as hell was no reason for him to be touching Neal so familiarly, like he would his goddamn wife.

It had gone on for about two weeks, Neal becoming increasingly stressed as Peter kept every sentence as brief as possible and avoided the man whenever he could. Finally he'd come home to find El waiting for him on the couch, looking upset. She'd patted the cushion next to her and he'd sat down, wondering why he was in the doghouse.

Apparently Neal had shown up, a little drunk, and poured out his soul to Elizabeth, asking her over and over what he did wrong that Peter hated him now.

"Hon," she'd said, "you're tearing the boy apart. What's going on?"

And so Peter had tried to explain, as well as he could, swearing that whatever had gotten him and Neal to this point was irrelevant because he was going to make it go away. She was the one he loved.

He'd half expected her to demand a divorce, even if touching someone's wrist wasn't exactly adultery. It was weird, definitely abnormal, and anything but professional. He should have known El was too amazing for that. She'd just pursed her lips, scolded him for treating Neal badly, and told him that she had always known he had a soft sport for the con artist, from the day Peter took over his case.

"You and Neal have something, you guys just don't know it," she'd informed him calmly, an amused sparkle to her eyes. "If you think I'm threatened by that walking piece of art, then you've lost it. Neal is smart and handsome just like you are smart and handsome, but he's different enough to keep the mystery—and the mystery is what makes it so fun. Maybe someday both of you will own up and realize that you've got something." Peter had started to protest and she'd held up a hand to silence him. "Maybe you won't. But you are *my* husband and you always will be. You're something to Neal, but you're not his husband and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't really want to be your wife. Outside of that… How about we just take it as it comes, okay, hon?"

The conversation had been… more than enlightening. It was like Peter had been blind for years and could suddenly see. He was attracted to Neal. Smart, sassy, clever Neal. He wanted to protect him, to care for him, to be with him. But El was right about one thing—he didn't want to marry him. Peter had felt like a bird let out of its cage. Suddenly the subtle touches and special smiles were a game. It was especially fun because Peter knew for a fact that Neal had *no* idea. The truth was, Peter was afraid that, if Neal did find out, their relationship would be ruined for good. El seemed to think that Neal had the same kind of feelings for Peter that Peter had for Neal, but womanly instincts weren't always correct, especially when they were concerning two men.

Neal was both a romantic and a playboy. He was a womanzier, bur in a gentlemanly way. Besides his fancy hats and extensive moisturizing routine, Peter had never seen Neal do anything to make him think that the other man might be attracted to men. But it was okay. Peter just enjoyed being with Neal, and he especially enjoyed knowing that he could become as close a companion to the man as possible without destroying the love he had with Elizabeth. If subtle touches were all he ever got, well, he still got to see Neal's big smile and make comments on his cartoonish clothing and work with his brilliant mind. It wasn't such a bad deal.

There were times, of course, when Peter kind of wished that his thing with Neal was a little simpler, today being a fine example. Why the hell had Neal taken off? Yeah, so El was right, he should have talked to Neal in private before declaring him their undercover hooker. But the son of a bitch had taken off like a freaking rabbit, straight to the edge of his radius. The wingtips and suit Peter was wearing were not made for hiking across New York City in the middle of the summer.

He glanced down at his phone again, the little dot blinking right in the center. Neal was somewhere in the near vicinity.

Peter scanned the block. There was a Ben & Jerry's down the street and Neal had a thing for frozen yogurt. Peter glanced down at his phone. Nope, it was out of his radius. Too bad, Peter wouldn't mind some Cookies N Cream right now. He scanned the area again.

There. Neal was seated in front of a small cafe, his head propped up on one hand as he stared across the street at the ice cream parlor. Peter's lips twitched in amusement at the longing look on the man's face. He had a sudden urge to pop up behind him and say, "Three more months and you could have been eating a banana split over there right now, buddy," but he was already in enough trouble for God knows what. No need to feed the flame.

Peter moved toward the cafe, coming to a stop in front of Neal's table. The man's eyes were kind of glazed and he looked lost in thought, which was sort of worrying. Neal wasn't usually the kind of man you could easily sneak up on.

"Can I sit down?" Peter questioned, a little amused when Neal jerked, almost knocking over his water glass.

The man recovered quickly, once again graceful and ever-smooth. "It's a free country," his voice was light but it was obvious that he was less than happy with Peter. God, he'd chased him halfway across the city. Hadn't he been punished enough?

"You went pretty far for lunch," Peter said as he sat down across from Neal, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm still in my radius," Neal replied shortly.

"Didn't say you weren't," Peter said. He picked up the menu. God, he was starving. "Anything good here?"

Neal's lip curled up slightly, as it tended to do when you mentioned things like wine in a box or day old donuts. "Not really. Their salad comes from a bag and their sandwiches look like someone stepped on them. The coffee's actually not horrendous, though."

Oh, no, their salad came from a bag? Someone call the kitchen police! "Hm." Peter caught a waitress' eye, dropping the menu back on the table as he smiled up at her. "I'll have the deviled ham," he said, more to irritate Neal than anything else.

It worked. Neal shot him a slightly disgusted look. "Of course."

Peter flashed him a smile. "And lemonade. Thank you."

The waitress nodded and Peter took a deep breath as he turned his attention back to Neal, ready to deal with the powder keg. Unfortunately he didn't even get a full sentence in before it went off. "Okay, Neal—"

"I want some rules." The words came out like vomit, if you wanted to describe them really gross terms. They just sort of spewed out, in a very un-Neal-like way. Peter frowned, not sure where this was going, but sure he didn't like it. Neal looked… well, kind of freaked out.

"Rules, Neal?" Peter made it question and Neal began to nod, too quickly, then sort of straightened up, obviously forcing himself to relax. What was going on? Neal wasn't like this.

"That's right. I want some rules. Before I do this… con."

He wanted rules for the op? They had plenty of rules—they were called the law. Wisely Peter chose not to say that—El would be impressed with his tact—and just nodded, feeling confused. "Okay, tell me what that means. What 'rules' do you want?"

Neal just sat there for a moment, a kind of puzzled look coming over his face, like he hadn't expected that to be Peter's answer. "I… I want a safe word. I want a word that, when I say it, you'll come in and get me whether the job is done or not."

What the fuck? He had a safe word on every damn case. It was called 'help me.'

"Okay, maybe not a word where you'll come get me no matter what. But a word where you'll try and come get me if it won't mess everything up. And when it's over, I want the tapes destroyed. I don't want myself on tape where people could listen to them for… reasons other than taking down Melbane."

Other reasons than taking down Melbane? What other reasons would they use surveillance recordings for? Peter was definitely not following.

Neal's adam's apple bobbed noticeably. God, the man was nervous. Peter hadn't seen him this nervous since the sentencing day of his trial. "And I don't care what he wants, we use a condom. If he won't use a condom, then it's over. We find another way."

Peter didn't hear what Neal said after that, he was too busy reeling from the punch in the gut Neal had just sent his way. Was the man out of his mind? Had he really thought that he, Peter Burke, would send him out to have sex with their suspect just to get some fucking wires in the house? Peter felt his face growing hot. Neal really believed he would do that to him? That was disgusting! Neal was his CI, was under *his* custody. Neal was his to *protect*! And if any son of a bitch ever came *close* to touching Neal in a way he didn't like, Peter would beat their faces in. Or put them in jail. No, screw jail. He'd totally just beat their faces in.

Neal's face had gone pale, his eyes a little too wide, and Peter took a deep breath, realizing he probably looked like he was about to explode. And he felt like he was about to explode. It made him furious, both the idea of Neal being sent in like cannon fodder to fill Melbane's twisted desires-not to mention the fact that Neal apparently believed that Peter would do something like that to him. Talk about a knife in the heart.

"Or… or maybe I'll just do whatever you want." Neal held up his hands defensively. "It doesn't matter anyway. I don't care." A pause and then, quieter, "Why *would* anybody care?"

Peter's heart pounded and he forced himself to speak calmly, albeit through gritted teeth. "Gee, I don't know, Neal, maybe because you're my friend?" Peter palmed his face, trying to choke down the anger and hurt he felt. It wasn't Neal's fault. He had no idea how Peter felt about him. It's not like Peter had ever walked up and told him, 'Hey, you're actually my best friend—oh, and you're really attractive too, just FYI.' But he'd kind of hoped Neal understood. Apparently not, though, if he thought Peter would basically pimp him out to close a case.

"For God's sake, no wonder you didn't want to do this!" Peter leaned forward, staring intensely into Neal's eyes. "You're not going to have to sleep with the man, Neal! That is *not* the plan. That was *never* the plan. You're going to get him to take you to his house, drop a few bugs wherever you can, and get the fuck out. If he even *touches* you I'll… I'll… Well, I don't know what I'll do but it won't be pretty." He did know what he'd do, actually, since he was seeing it vividly in his mind at that very moment, but describing it would just make him sound like a serial killer, so better to keep his mouth shut.

Neal looked confused. "I don't understand."

Peter let out a sigh and practically grabbed the lemonade the waitress had just set down, chugging it back like a beer. What was there to understand? Peter was not going to sell him to strangers. Ever. It couldn't get more straight forward than that, could it? "I really can't believe you think I would force you to have sex with some *man*!" He paused. That sounded kind of homophobic. "Or a woman, but especially a man!" Not that the idea of Neal with another man made him feel threatened or anything… "Neal, the plan is simple. You get him to take you home, you plant bugs, you leave."

"I… But… But he's taking me home for sex, Peter." Neal kind of squirmed, eyes dancing around the table, refusing to meet Peter's. "Once you go with them, you can't decide to pick up and leave. You have to give them what they want."

Peter stared. What the hell? He couldn't imagine Neal Caffrey taking home some whore and informing her that she had better do what he wanted or else. It would be easier to imagine Billy Graham dancing a tango wearing sparkly heels and a dress. But that was pretty much what he was saying, wasn't it? "That's really what you think?" It couldn't be what he thought. There was something here that he wasn't understanding. "I thought you were a romantic. You think that just because some whore goes home with a guy, they gotta put out or else?"

Neal let out a sigh. "Peter, it doesn't matter what I think on the topic. It matters what Melbane thinks. If I go in there… I'm gonna have to let him do what he wants."

Dear God, there was fear in Neal's eyes. Neal was not scared of much, but this was obviously a sore spot.

"Like hell you are," Peter replied, trying to ignore the urge to basically stand up and pound his chest. "You drop some bugs then fake a headache or something, get in a cab, and leave Melbane alone with his left hand." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I would *never* let some bastard like Melbane hurt you. I *care* about you."

Neal just sat there, staring at him with an unreadable look on his face—the kind of face he wore when something was *really* bothering him. Peter let out a sigh.

"You know what, Neal?" Peter said, trying to sound comforting. "Maybe this isn't such a great idea anyway." Peter could find someone else to do this, then Neal wouldn't feel bad and Peter wouldn't have to worry about him being out there with the sickos. It kind of worked out for everyone, even if Peter couldn't think of another person he trusted as much as Neal who could do this job. Not off the top of his head, anyway. "I… I'm not sure I want you out there. You obviously think you're going to get hurt—"

"That's not what I said," Neal protested, voice still sounding a little unsure.

Peter took a deep breath and slowly moved his hand to rest on Neal's arm, trying to look as casual as possible, even as parts of his anatomy that weren't particularly polite to talk about announced their interest. "Look, you think about it and, whatever you decide, it's what we'll go with, okay? If you're not up to it, we'll figure out someone else tomorrow, okay? Just give it some thought. It's your choice." He stood, squeezing his arm. "I've got to get back to the Bureau. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?" He smirked and nodded toward the ice cream shop Neal had been studying. "But don't let your love of frozen yogurt tempt you to do evil."

Neal smiled, his real smile, the one that always made Peter want to smile even bigger. "I'll do my best."


	3. Chapter 3: Ye Who Enter

_See Chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_**  
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**Author's Notes:** Thanks for the reviews so far everyone! To the person who anonymously asked if this was going to be another fanfic where Neal is Peter's kept boy and accepts his role as second best... the answer is no, LOL. ;P

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**Chapter 3: Ye Who Enter**

Peter squeezed tightly at the pencil he was holding as he flipped through the file, trying to keep his temper in check. It wasn't easy. His little tryst with Neal had left him with a lot of questions, the first and foremost being why the hell Neal would think for a second that Peter would actually pimp him out to some motherfucker just to solve a case. Obviously something had happened—your average person did not make assumptions like that, did they?—and, using his amazing deductive skills, Peter had decided that Neal's prison records might be a good place to start for answers. As much as the idea sickened him, he figured that it was possible an attractive young guy like Neal had experienced some sexual assault at one time. Little did he know that he'd be be opening Pandora's box. How the hell could all of this have happened to Neal? *His* Neal?

He grimaced a little as he turned the page, coming across a particularly unpleasant photo. Not that any of them were particularly pleasant. This one was a nude shot of Neal from the back, cataloging the bruises on his body. There were quite a few to catalog.

"How, exactly, did this happen?" Peter questioned, trying his best to keep his voice calm despite the simmering anger in his chest.

Even over the speakerphone he could the wariness in the warden's voice. "Ah, well, it is prison, Agent Burke. These things happen sometimes. But," he added hurriedly, "we ran a full range of STD tests on him after that one and then moved him to his own cell in supermax, so no worries about disease."

Peter gritted his teeth. He hadn't even *thought* to worry about that. He was still in shock over the realization that smooth, confident Neal Caffrey had spent his time in prison being molested by a bunch of sons of bitches with greasy beards and dirty hands.

"Believe it or not, all tests were negative. Caffrey's clean. He's a lucky bastard considering how he sold his ass like it was Skittles."

Peter started at the offhand comment. Was this bastard actually implying that Neal had whored himself out? "Wait, you mean that Caffrey was, what, a prison *prostitute*?" Peter couldn't hide the disbelief in his voice. That was just so… not Neal.

"Yeah, he must have been good, too. Would stand in the corner of the outdoor rec area and they'd practically line up for him. He wasn't cheap, either. Most guys go for maybe a roll of toilet paper, but Caffrey got some good deals. Candy bars. Soda pop. Scented shampoo. The luxuries." He paused. "O' course his daddy of the day usually took most of it, but that's how it goes, right?"

"Wait, are you saying that, under your watch, Neal Caffrey was pimped out by other *inmates*?" Peter questioned, tipping back and forth between utter disbelief and absolute rage. This fucker had *watched* while some assholes did… *that* to Neal?

Peter tugged at the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling like he was burning up. He was pretty sure he looked like a tomato on the edge of exploding.

The warden actually snickered a little, which *really* made Peter want to kill him. Too bad that you couldn't strangle a person through the phone.

"Aw, you didn't think you were the first one, did you? Let's see… there was that Spic with the serious body odor, then the biker who liked to carve people up, then 'Monty the Big Nigga', as the inmates like to call him. But like I said, Caffrey was well tested before we handed him over to you, Burke, so no worries."

"No worries? What the hell are you talking about?" Peter snapped, not quite able to wrap his mind around what this asshole was saying. He was too busy envisioning ways to kill him. God, no wonder Neal had freaked out so badly about Peter sending him under as a hooker—he'd probably flashbacked to hell the second the words came out of Peter's mouth! Dammit! Why hadn't Neal told him?

Peter nearly laughed aloud at the thought, not that he was amused in the least. Why hadn't Neal told him? Gee, maybe because it was an absolutely humiliating to admit? Peter sure as hell wouldn't have told anyone if he was in the man's shoes. But it still hurt, just a little bit. He wanted Neal to trust him. But he understood—this wasn't the kind of thing you talked about, especially as one man to another.

The warden laughed again and the pencil Peter had been clutching snapped between his fingers. It was a very satisfying sound—it reminded him of snapping someone's neck.

"Hey, calm down, Burke. No need for secrets between comrades. That Marshal of yours who stopped by lookin' for Caffrey's files told us all about your little thing. Clever idea, I say. Use 'em and lose 'em."

His Marshal? Why the fuck were the Marshals looking for info on Caffrey? And what the hell did he mean, their little thing? "I have no idea what you're talking about. Our little thing? What Marshal did you talk to?"

There was a short pause, then the man spoke again, voice a little condescending. "Oooh, I see. We're playing it like that?" Peter could practically hear his smirk. "Okay, Agent Burke. You have yourself a good time with your, uh, *consulting.* Caffrey is certainly a fine piece to *consult* with."

The meaning behind the words hit him like a bat to the face, leaving him reeling. Was this schmuck *really* implying that he, Peter Burke, was misusing his CI? Was misusing *Neal*? "I don't know what you heard," Peter said, voice low and dangerous. "But I suggest that you forget you ever heard it. And I really hope you like collecting stamps, because when I'm through with you, you're gonna have a brand new job in the unemployment line."

There was a choking sound at the end of the line. "What? What? I don't… Why?"

"What Marshal did you talk to?" Peter questioned, staring at the speakerphone furiously enough that he wouldn't have been surprised to hear that the man at the other end of the line could feel his glare.

"I, uh, I don't know! Look, Agent Burke, if I said something I shouldn't have-"

"You have no idea," Peter cut in, clenching his fist as he stared down at the photo of bruised, beaten down Neal. "No idea at all. Now, who the fuck did you talk to about Caffrey?"

"I don't remember! The man sounded panicked. Good, he should sound panicked considering that Peter had half a mind to get in his car, drive to that godforsaken prison, and wring his neck. "Just… a Marshal. A US Marshal. He… he had brown hair. And a badge. And… uh… I don't know. He didn't sign in. Please Agent Burke, I'm sorry. What you do with Caffrey is none of my business. I got a family to feed-"

"And I have a friend who was raped while you sat around and played with your thumbs. You'll be lucky if your job is the *only* thing you lose!" Because if Peter ever got with ten feet of him, the bastard's balls might be next.

Peter hit the button to end the call. God, that was so unsatisfying. Fucking technology. He picked up the phone and slammed it back down on the hanger as hard as he could. There. That was way better than pushing a damn button.

Peter shook his head, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach, and began to yank open his desk drawers, searching for the inter-governmental phone book. He didn't know why the Marshals were looking for information on Neal—much less telling stories about Peter behind his back—but he was sure going to find out. Then somebody was going to burn in hell for this.

As Peter slammed another drawer shut, there was a cursory knock. He looked up, red faced, as Diana stepped into the room.

"Now is not a good time, Di—" He cut off at the look on her face, frowning at the dark look in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

Diane took a deep breath and stepped forward, holding out a folder. "There's been another fire, boss. And this time we have bodies."

o0o0o

"Here ya go, Snake Eyes," the old man said, holding out a somewhat rusty key. "Ya know where to go."

Neal flashed the man a bright smile as he took it. It always paid to be friendly, even when you felt like shit. "Thanks."

"No problem. Good to see ya."

Neal nodded and set off down the hall, resisting the urge to plug his nose up with his tie. The smell of mildew and ammonia with a little hint of dog shit on the side was less than pleasant, but he'd get used to it. It was amazing how fast you got used to smelling like crap. When Neal had lived in these sort of places, he hadn't been able to smell it at all. But after so long living the high life, it was an assault to his senses.

Neal came to a stop before the door to "his" room, taking a deep breath as he studied the aging plastic number like it was Spain's latest watermark technology or the new hundred dollar bill. Okay, he could do this. It was just a room. Just one stinky, dirty little room. And if it was also a pitiful metaphor for the worst years of his life, well, it wasn't *that* big of a deal, right? Neal stuck the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door open so that he could see into the small, musky smelling room. God, it was like taking the first step into hell.

What was he doing? This was absolutely insane, coming here. What did he hope to gain from it? Neal wasn't sure, exactly. This place had so much meaning, yet no meaning at all. It was just a trashy room like every other trashy room Neal had ever lived out of. They were all the same, just like the men he'd brought back to them. One after another, an endless stream of sticky sheets and dirty carpet and wall-sized mirrors. This was the place of Neal's childhood, and the place of his new beginning.

Neal had been terrified the day Peter had pulled the Taurus up in front of the covergirl for No-Tell Motels Illustrated. Most people saw it as just another shit hole in a rapidly declining neighborhood. Neal had been in the business, though, and what he saw was a place where no one would ask questions when the big man in the suit showed up at strange times of night and used the manager's key to get into the room of the slim, pretty man. There would be no use in screaming. They didn't call these places 'no tell' for nothing.

Not that Neal could have resisted if that was what Peter had wanted. He pretty much belonged to Peter Burke, after all. But there was something comforting about knowing that someone would at least notice your cries. Being Mr. Cellophane was no fun when you were begging for help.

Of course, Neal would never tell Peter about any of that. Doubtless the man would be furious to know Neal had even considered that Peter might take advantage of his limitless power over his prisoner. But Neal had never *known* a man in a position of power over him who cared if he hurt him, at least until he'd met Peter. Fearing the big man was logical to him. After all, fucking a person who didn't want it was a damn good way to put them in their place. Neal's step-father had done it, strange men near the street corner he'd worked as a kid had done it, the thug bodyguard in Cicily who'd caught him stealing an expensive vase had done it, the guys in prison had done it… The list went on and on.

Why shouldn't Agent Burke, obviously eager to show Neal who ruled the roost, use his most powerful weapon to tear him down?

Neal had already been so off balance that day, dressed in his entire wardrobe and sporting an uncomfortable tracker on his ankle that kind of made him limp. Then the second they had pulled out of the prison parking lot Peter had started talking about money, about how Neal would be expected to work hard and how nothing came for free and how he had better start clipping coupons because he would be expected to carry his own weight—or else. Neal had become more and more agitated as the lecture went on, not entirely sure why it was warranted. He wasn't trying to steal tax payers' money so he could buy a yacht or whatever—he'd just wanted out of that hell hole called prison, for God's sake. There had also been plenty of warnings regarding Neal's "special skill set", which Peter made very clear he damn well better not use to get ahead, along with a couple reminders of how much he owed the agent thrown in for good measure. And he did owe the man. A lot.

What had made Neal most nervous, however, was when Peter had turned to him and said, flat out, that he expected quite a return on his investment. It could very well have been his prison "daddy" talking to him. Well, if Peter had cornrows and what he wanted to get out of their "relationship" was rough sex and Snickers bars. It had made Neal feel kind of ill, a sinking feeling coming over him as he tried to imagine just *what* he would be expected to do to earn his keep.

When Peter had pulled up in front of that trashy motel, it felt like all of Neal's fears had been confirmed. *This* was where Neal was supposed to earn his pay? Homeless shelters were nicer than this dump. But then homeless shelters didn't let you bring men home, did they? Either Peter was counting on the hot dog stand across the street being willing to hire a felon or he expected Neal to use his *other* special skills to earn his payday—the ones Peter *hadn't* mentioned during his little lecture but that he *had* to know about. Someone at the prison would have told him, right? All the guards seemed to think it was funny, anyway. Cash-Cow Caffrey, they called him, and Kneels For It Neal.

Neal had climbed slowly out of the car, stomach sinking as he got a look at what was going to be his new home, trying not to panic. The old man at the counter had leered at Neal as they entered, though the hooker by the door had hardly given them the time of day—no doubt she figured that the big guy already had his ass candy for the night. Peter had been oblivious, but Neal knew what it looked like, the well off man in the suit herding around the not-quite-as-well-off man with the pretty face and the slim shoulders like he owned him.

Neal's face had burned with the knowledge that everyone in the room was thinking of him as just a piece of ass and, slowly, the realization began to dawn that despite having escaped the bars and locks, he was still in prison. Oh, he could walk around the neighborhood, but if this was the kind of place Peter had decided to keep him, Neal wasn't sure that his life was going to be much better than it had been sharing a cell with Monty Williams. Hell, Monty had even kind of looked like Peter, albeit with African American features. The two certainly shared the same role of keeper turned master, anyway.

With visions of Monty's big fingers bruising his pale thighs pummeling Neal's mind, he had decided to take a chance. He'd put on his most sincere face in hope of cashing in a few pity chips, pulled Peter aside, and practically begged him to take him somewhere, anywhere else. There was always the tiniest chance that Peter would decide Neal couldn't handle it and cave, right? Maybe he *would* dump him at a homeless shelter and the social workers there could get Neal a job, like, picking up trash in the park or something? Anything to escape the endless humiliation of spreading your legs for stranger after stranger for less than most people paid to go to the theatre.

It was like this role chased him, everywhere he went. Just when he thought he'd escaped it, moved past it, something would happen and his face would be pressed into the pillow again.

Honestly Neal had expected Peter to tell him to shut the hell up and drag him down the hallway like he was Tarzan to Neal's Jane. Much to his relief—and suspicion, to some degree—Peter had simply made a face, made one more comment about the cost of housing prisoners, and told him that if he found something better, he should take it. Then he'd left Neal standing there and walked off to his car. No parting remark about how he'd be back after nine or how Neal better have some cash to show him in the morning or, well, *anything* other than vague directions to a thrift store where Neal might be able to find some more clothes.

It had not been the end of Neal's worries, of course. Just because Peter hadn't ravaged him the second he got a chance didn't mean that the man had good intentions. Neal had quite a bit of experience in this area and he knew that oftentimes these kind of men tried to win you over in the beginning and then struck when you weren't expecting it. Neal had decided to play it as light-hearted as he could—confronting Peter about it might have made the queasy, unsteady feeling in his stomach go away but it also might have ended with him bent over a table or something. So he'd turned on the smooth Neal Caffrey charm that had served him so well over the years and gone to town.

He'd half expected some sort of retaliation when he'd left that sassy note for Peter at the motel—if not in a physical sense then at least by putting Neal in an even worse dump than before. 'XOXO, Neal,' he'd written. It had sort of been a test, to see how far Good Cop could be pushed 'til Bad Cop arose. Peter, of course, had passed, albeit in a completely unexpected way.

He'd been openly annoyed by Neal's uncanny ability to land on his feet, but he hadn't tried to punch him in the face for being insubordinate like the guys in prison, so it was all good. And all of Neal's theories regarding how Peter planned for him to "earn his keep" had been bashed, considering that June would probably notice if Neal started bringing home balding, overweight men in the middle of the night. Apparently when Peter had talked about Neal earning his pay he really had meant at the FBI offices which was much better than a street corner, even if the paperwork was as boring as hell.

About then was when a small—but obviously very masochistic—part of Neal had decided to see just how far he could push before the Bad Cop that Neal was sure was hiding deep down inside Agent Burke reared its ugly head. Neal had started tugging on the leash at every chance, and not just when he was trying to find Kate. Any chance he got, he pulled, waiting for the honest, hard working good old boy that was Peter to metamorphosis into every man Neal had ever known. Basically, into an abusive power hungry bastard. At least when he figured out Peter's limits, he could avoid them, right?

Fast forward two years and Neal still had yet to find the breaking point. In fact, Peter had risked his entire career to *help* Neal more than once. And, yes, the Feds used his skills like a John Doe used a whore, but at least his usefulness was no longer measured entirely on his ability to wash socks and suck dick like it had been in prison.

There were days when he still wondered about Peter, but that was just the paranoia that spilled over from having lived a life where people hurt you at every turn. Neal cared about Peter and he knew Peter cared about him—though there were bad days, days when Peter was so distrustful of him that Neal started to believe all the man wanted him for was analyzing currency and calling out forgeries. Days when the always over-hanging threat of "do your job or it's back to prison" loomed so dark that Neal couldn't see beyond it. Those tended to be the days he did the stupidest things, liking leaping from the fourth story window of a judge's chambers or breaking into Peter's house and cracking his safe or keeping Mozzie's theft of the U-boat goods a secret.

But the good days greatly out numbered the bad—thank God or Neal probably *would* have been back in prison long ago—and, most of the time, what Neal really wanted was for Peter to be proud of him. It wasn't something he liked to admit, not even to himself, but Peter really had won him over from the Dark Side. He was so honest and reliable, really unlike any man Neal had ever known.

Neal looked around, licking his lips nervously. The room had a claustrophobic feel, the walls painted in dark colors, and the bed was lopsided, stuffing poking out from the mattress. There was just a blanket on it—apparently the patrons of this fine establishment had no need for sheets, or maybe the sheets had been so badly stained they just decided to throw them away.

Neal shut the door behind him, locking it to keep away any seedy people who might come along—and also the Oogie Boogie Man, also known as that horrible dog—then he began to tug at his tie.

God, it had been so long since he's stayed in a place like this. Even in prison it hadn't been quite like this. It was easier to believe that you had no choice when bars covered your windows and heavy duty locks prevented your escape. A room like this, though… It was the choice that people with no choice made. A place for bottom feeders, for those who had nothing left to lose. Neal had lived in a room like this once, a long time ago.

He peeled off his jacket then his shirt, carefully folding them and setting them on the least dirty spot of floorspace. His shoes, socks, and pants quickly followed and, next thing he knew, Neal was standing in the middle of the room dressed in only his boxer-briefs. He moved over to the bed, crawling carefully to the middle, then laid down on his side, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

It was like another life, lived by another person. This hadn't been *him*, had it? Neal was a top con-artist, a master forger, an amazing thief. He could rob a bank before they knew what hit them and could paint you a Picasso faster than you could could say 'fake.' He'd run with people like Mozzie and Alex and Keller and, well, Kate. He'd been hunted by the top dogs—Interpol, Europol, the FBI, even the CIA.

The person who had laid in a bed like this, waiting silently as a man took off his clothes, hadn't been wanted by anyone, not even his own mother. Interpol didn't give a shit about that person—hell, NYPD didn't give a shit about that person. Pretty, scrawny young men with no record of violence who faded into the shadows as the cops walked by weren't worth hassling. They'd probably die off on their own anyway, be it from drugs or disease or just a knife to the throat followed by a quick trip to the Dumpster. The one who had laid in this bed had no skills, no talent. Even in the bedroom he didn't really know what he was doing so much as he followed commands and tried to remember what other men had said they liked best. He'd had no family and no friends. In fact, he was so anti-social that the other kids just called him 'No-Name.' Surely there was no way that they were the same person, right?

Neal blinked back tears. Maybe the man in this bed *was* the real person. After all, the Neal Caffrey he claimed to be was more like a superhero than a person—or a supervillain, depending on which side of the law you preferred. Amazingly smart and undeniably attractive with an uncanny ability to make everyone in the room like him. It was definitely the person Neal preferred. But was it real?

Neal's supposedly endless skills hadn't helped him out much in prison. Yeah, he could escape, but he couldn't stop the other inmates from raping him. All of his begging, his offers of money and art and jewels… Worthless. The guys in the pen wanted candy bars and extra soap, not anything the dashing young Mr. Caffrey had to give. But that dull eyed, desperate boy in the bed? He didn't do so badly behind bars.

At the time Neal had convinced himself that it was just another con. He would be that boy, the one with no name who slept in seedy motels and would do anything for a dollar, if that's what it took to survive. He would shut down the parts of him that scoffed at wines that came in boxes and the cheap prints of Monet's 'Water Lilies' that everybody and their brother seemed to have hanging in their office. He would carefully conceal the man who liked the silky feeling of expensive suits and the shine of Italian leather and become that boy, the one who would do anything he had to do to get by. He was not a person Neal respected—not a person that *anyone* would respect—but he could survive federal lockup. The supposed superhero? Not so much.

So Neal had morphed into that boy, a person that he'd scorned long ago. It hadn't been as easy a fit as Nick Halden or Steve Tabernacle, so sometimes Neal Caffrey still peeked through, but it had kept him alive. Once a week, like clockwork, Neal Caffrey would rise up again, go to the visitor's room, and talk to his love. Then, as the door closed behind her, the young man without the name appeared once more and Neal would gladly melt away, hiding behind his obedient front.

Now Neal was starting to wonder if maybe that young man in the bed wasn't his real self and Neal Caffrey was the con.

When he'd made his new start as "Neal Caffrey," he'd sworn to leave his other life behind. But he couldn't wish away the scars it had left. He still woke up in the night covered in sweat, even during the times he'd felt the safest, the times when Kate's arms were wrapped around him and he knew he had nothing to fear. He still had an innate distrust for men in power, one of the reasons he and Mozzie made such a good pair. Mozzie feared The Man while Neal just feared men in general—but the paranoia was similar, even if they expressed it in different ways, and it had helped build a bond between them. Both men's childhoods had left them wary of those in control. Neal just expressed it more personally,while Mozzie applied it to the entire world. So though Neal wasn't worried that the President was withholding evidence of an alien invasion, he didn't trust that, just because a man had been your friend for years, he wouldn't stab you in the back. And while Mozzie was blindly faithful that those he called friends would always do right by him, he would never try and tell you that you were being paranoid when you got a gut feeling that someone had been in your room, despite there being no evidence to support it. They filled one another's blind spots, even if Mozzie's more extensive paranoias made Neal roll his eyes and Neal's inability to trust him one hundred percent hurt Mozzie's feelings. Yeah, being that kid had left plenty of scars.

Maybe Neal Caffrey wasn't so different from the nameless boy in the motel as he liked to believe.

Feeling restless, Neal turned over onto his back, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. He took a steadying breath, fisting at the blanket on either side of him, then started to spread his legs, very slowly. Just the feel of it made him grimace and he quickly brought them back together, crossing one thigh over the other protectively. How could he and that boy really be parts of the same person? They were the antithesis of one another, how could they be the same? How could he, Neal Caffrey, be *that* boy? Just the thought kind of made him sick. Performing intimate acts on cue was not what Neal did. It was not what he wanted associated with him. And most of all, it was *not* how he wanted Peter to think of him.

What if that nameless boy really was still him and Peter found out? Just that was enough reason to try and avoid this op. What would Peter think about him if he did it and he was a little *too* good at his role? Maybe Neal should tell him, explain. Fess up before Peter found out on his own and try to save a little face. Maybe Peter would understand his reservations then and find someone else. That way he would know, but he wouldn't *know.* He wouldn't have seen it with his own eyes.

Neal didn't want to let the man down, he really didn't, but he wasn't sure he could pull this off even if he wanted. There were too many terrible memories. He could trust Peter, right? If he went to him and explained that, Peter would understand, right? He was a good man. He wouldn't think less of Neal, knowing the twisted things he'd done in the name of "getting by."

Except… Peter had hardly come to terms with the part of Neal he knew. He still thought of Neal as a criminal, still didn't trust him enough to go more than a few days without checking his tracker. And he treated Neal differently than he did other people because of that. So if Neal told him about his past, the honest truth, who was to say that their whole relationship wouldn't be changed? Peter was a meat and potatoes kind of guy. If he hadn't lived in the middle of the City, he would probably have a damn picket fence around his house. Was avoiding one night on a street corner pretending to be a whore worth the chance that Peter might be disgusted by him? Was one fuck or blow job or whatever Melbane would want worth ruining Neal's nighttime fantasy about the kind man who would run his hands gently along his body, replacing him with yet another face who called him names and looked at him in disgust?

Neal shivered a little. He shouldn't be thinking this way. He trusted Peter, and he didn't trust many people. Now he had to trust that Peter was really the kind of guy who deserved that trust. Neal should just go to him, tell him that he couldn't handle it, and trust that Peter would understand.

After all, it wasn't as if the other option was any better. Whatever Peter believed, Neal would have to put out for Melbane if he wanted to avoid suspicion. You had to give yourself to the con, completely, to pull it off. That was the first rule of the art. Besides, cheap whores didn't take a twenty minute ride in your car then turn around and decide it was time to go home. That was just… off. So if Neal went in, he would have to do way more than Peter wanted him to. He could probably foul up the wire by shoving it under a pillow or something so they couldn't actually hear what he was doing, but Peter would know *something* was going down. It wouldn't be too hard to guess what. Then Peter would be disgusted by him anyway. Talk about a lose-lose situation.

So what was the better choice? To trust that Peter would understand when Neal came to him like a whiny kid with a sob story and moaned about how he just couldn't do it? Or to let Peter think Neal was a slut when he gave Melbane what he wanted in order to solve the case?

The last time Neal had put his trust in a man, it hadn't ended well. Maybe it wasn't a good example, considering that he'd been running a con at the time, but he really had lost himself in it. So much of his life had come from that single con. He had developed tastes that would change the way he saw the world. He had met the woman he wanted to be with forever. And he had put his faith in a man named Vincent Adler.

Nice try, Neal.

Neal turned over, burying his face in a moldy smelling pillow to hide the tears. How the hell had he ended up trapped in this corner? Either way he went, his relationship with Peter would be changed. Peter *knew* something was up, so Neal couldn't just fake sick. He had to do something, because the last thing he wanted was for Peter to go looking for the reason that this case was throwing Neal off so badly. He did *not* need Peter banging at his door with a screw top bottle of wine in hand wanting to have a heart to heart over this.

He should go to him and explain, short and simple, no alcohol necessary. "Hi, Peter. I used to be a whore. Then I was a whore again. Now the thought gives me panic attacks. Yeah, that's right, the a perfect place to stab me! I'm not invincible. Who knew?" Peter wouldn't use it against him. He wouldn't. Neal *trusted* him. Peter wasn't like the other men Neal had known throughout his life. Peter held his leash because Neal had handed it to him, not because he enjoyed controlling him. Neal was just getting what he deserved for breaking the law. His fair share. Peter was not like Neal's step-father, who had enjoyed every strike, or Monty, who took so much joy in bringing him down. Peter was different. That was why he *liked* Peter. That was why he wanted to be *with* Peter. Because he *trusted* Peter to do right by him, to put Neal first, even though Peter was the one holding all the cards.

ANCIENTLYRE

Nice try, Neal.

His heart ached at the memory and Neal turned back over, drawing his legs tightly to his body once more as he stared down dully at the stained mattress. The truth was that Neal Caffrey was not his real name, he had never really been free from this hell, and you could never trust anybody. Not even the man you secretly loved.

Especially not the man you secretly loved.

o0o0o

The door opened, harsh daylight cutting across the dingy gray walls of the room. A tall, thin man stepped in, looking around uneasily.

"Did you get what I need?" The voice came from off to the side, deep and low.

The first man jumped at the words, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the lantern sitting on a table covered in files and picturs. "Whoa! Whoa, wow, didn't see ya there. I, yeah, uh, I got it." He moved forward, holding out a cardboard box full of files. "Got quite a bit of stuff on the guy. They were really chatty, too. Was all talkin' about how the pretty one went home with the Fed and how he's a real whore. I says, I bet there's something going on there! Gettin' a piece of that ass! I know why that Fed is interested in that!"

"Oh for the love of… Just put it on the table," the other man said shortly and the thin man obeyed, face a little too pale as his eyes flickered over the pictures spread across the table.

"So, uh, what you need all this for anyway?" He leaned forward to get a better look at the photos then let out a yelp as the other man slapped the side of his head.

"It doesn't matter what I need it for. You're not a part of this."

The man scowled, rubbing at his ear. "Hey there! I am half of this team. I think I should know what's goin' on if anyone does."

The other man gave him a withering look. "You know all you need to know. Just get in the truck and drive. It's not complicated."

"But I still don't get it. The Feds are gonna be all over me!"

"I'll distract them. I will make *very* certain that their eyes are not on the art," the other man replied, a smirk in his voice as he reached out and laid a finger very gently on a photo, pulling it across the table toward him. "Agent Burke is going to be very sorry he ever tried to quell my fire." He chuckled darkly as he picked up another photo, holding it up to the light, leaning forward as if speaking to it. "Oh, Agent Burke… One should be less careless with one's most treasured possessions… Look how you touch him so subtly… Like an accident that happens over and over and over again… Carefully controlled chaos. Lie after lie curtaining your intentions, hiding your passion. Hiding the fire."

The thin man cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot nervously. "Uh, riiiight. That's, uh, great. So, back to the plan. Okay, I drive the truck away from the Melbane place while every Fed in Manhattan is staring at it. And you're gonna distract them? How the hell you gonna distract from that?"

The man looked up, a shrewd smile on his face. "As the mind of this operation I promise you, I only speak the truth—not one single Fed will know that the art is leaving the city. Fire is the greatest weapon, both physically and existentially." He touched another photo, finger tracing along a man's big arm slung carelessly across another's slim shoulders, the first man's hand gently brushing the second's chest. "I will use their own flames against one another to burn out the truth."

"Oh. Okay then, well as long as you do *that,*" the other man replied sarcastically, shaking his head. "Whatever. You're a fucking psycho. You have fun with all that as long as they don't catch me, okay?" He paused, frowning. "What are we gonna do about good old Joe Melbane?"

The man scoffed. "Let him burn. I am tired of him. A tedious man. With what we have taken, we shall be reborn from the fire and start our lives anew away from those like Agent Burke who watch us and taunt us." He smiled and moved the photo over to the lantern, smiling as the flames quickly turned the paper to ash. "Oh, little agent, son of he who watches us… Through me you enter the city of woes, through me you enter into eternal pain, through me you enter the population of loss… Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."


	4. Chapter 4: Fire and RAINN

_See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)  
><strong><br>Author's Notes on Butt Fires and Reviews:** Hey, I want to let ya'll know that I really appreciate reviews and am *always* grateful for those of you who comment on my stories-I love everything from smilies to constructive criticism! But there have been a few people (just a few) who have (usually anonymously) said some things that were kind of hurtful about how I originally stated that this would be posted quickly and then it wasn't. Look, I love fanfic, and I write fanfic for fun, for the joy of it. But real life sometimes takes precedence. I am sorry that this wasn't published immediately, but I actually got one or two flat out MEAN private messages about not having continued this and I just want to let those people know that it did nothing to make me want to work on it. It was hurtful and left me not even wanting to think about working on this story. In the past six months I have gotten a job where I worked 55 hours a week, lost said job because of the economy, been searching everywhere for another job, had to deal with my best friend and roommate getting sick with an illness that they still can't diagnose after 4 months, and met the man who just bought an engagement ring for me. I am picking it back up because so many great reviewers have very kindly expressed that they would like to read it through to the end, and **I will do my very best to get it all posted in the next month**. I understand that everybody gets upset sometimes, (God knows I do) but please, remember that this is a hobby, not a job, so please respect that Real Life gets in the way and don't send PMs or reviews cussing at me or calling me out for not doing what I said I'd do. It does the opposite of encouraging me, while NICE and CONSTRUCTIVE comments put a fire under my butt to write. Because, if you've seen my Glee fanfic, three of which are over 120,000 words at this time, I do tend to write a lot when I get the chance. I've just been very busy-I haven't updated my Glee fandom works in over 6 months, either, due to the RL stuff going on. Anyway, thanks to everyone who has given me so many nice reviews and hope you enjoy the fic. :)

o o o

**Chapter 4: Fire and RAINN**

Neal stared down at the coffee maker, wondering idly if throwing it across the room would get him in trouble. Probably, but it might be worth it. The thing had obviously betrayed him. Eight cups in and he was still exhausted. He had even switched the grounds to make sure that no one had snuck in some decaf, to no avail.

He'd barely slept the night before, haunted by nightmares that left him gasping, covered in sweat. Staying at that motel had been a seriously bad idea. He'd had to get up before five to run home and shower—there was no way he was going to step one foot in what passed for bathrooms at the motel—and he'd still barely made it to work on time. He felt vulnerable, and weak. It wasn't a feeling that appealed to him.

He grabbed the pot and tipped some more of the muck they called coffee into his little styrofoam cup, willing to give the coffee pot one more try or twenty—anything to make the pounding in his head subside.

God, what was he going to do? It was obvious Peter was waiting for an answer on the whole undercover thing—he could practically feel the man's eyes on him from up in his shining glass office. He had acted like such a fool yesterday… his cheeks were still flushing at the memory of it. No doubt the office was already abuzz with what had gone down—what in God's name had possessed him to use the words "flash my junk"?

Okay, he hadn't actually heard anyone talking about it, but he was sure they were. Why not? It must have been amusing to see Neal Caffrey break down. Maybe if just he agreed to do it, they would all shut up.

Neal's heart skipped a beat at the idea.

Shit, if just that thought made him crazy, how was he supposed to pull off this op? The truth was, he couldn't do it. He couldn't. It brought back too many memories, and the last thing they needed was for him to have a panic attack or something in the middle of the job. He was Neal Caffrey. The person who had done those things was someone else, someone he had to morph into in order to handle it. But that someone else wasn't the kind of person who would be any help to Peter.

Peter needed someone calm and in control, capable of getting things done. He needed Neal Caffrey—but Neal Caffrey couldn't be that someone and still be, well, Neal Caffrey. It was a catch 22 and there was no way out of it. But how to explain it to Peter so that he understood? Neal didn't *want* to let him down, he really didn't, and he would do this if he could. He would. But… he couldn't. He couldn't risk losing his mind over some burned down buildings.

It was true that the mere idea of all those beautiful works of art burned to ashes made him feel vaguely ill, but not nearly as ill as he'd felt when Peter had announced that Neal was the Bureau's new bus route—slide your card and take a ride! Okay, that hadn't been exactly what Peter had said, but it was how he'd made Neal feel, albeit unintentionally.

At least he knew that Peter hadn't meant to hurt him, or even offend him. He had no idea that Neal had whored himself nightly at an age when he should have been sitting in his room thinking about cute girls and playing Super Mario Brothers on his Nintendo.

It hadn't been easy, those first few times. Having to pretend you loved it when some middle aged bastard shoved his penis up your butt, wiggling and moaning when what you really wanted to do was scream and scream and scream until you couldn't scream any more was tough enough. Then, after he'd mastered pretending to like it, he'd had to learn to hate it again, for the guys who liked to play rough and wanted to see tears running down his cheeks.

Turning tricks had been Neal's first lesson in reading people. Reading people was truly the heart of a con. It didn't matter so much who *you* were, it mattered who *they* were. Once you understood who they were, then you could act accordingly, becoming whoever it was you needed to be to get what you wanted from them. In this case it had been money to eat, but later it would be everything from artwork to diamonds to information on a certain Fed who had his eye on Neal.

The idea of having to redo his earliest con—the one that wasn't so much an organized, planned job as a reckless journey of things he'd rather forget—scared him. Neal knew Peter's belief that he would be in and out with no actual 'in and out' occurring was naive. Melbane would want something, and might very well just decide to take it, whether Neal wanted to give it to him or not.

Neal had never fought them, not even when they were raping him. If you could even call fucking a whore 'rape,' that is. After all, a boy couldn't ask for it anymore than by standing on a dark street corner with glitter in his hair. But even if Peter managed to save him from the physical pain of it and they were in and out in the truest sense, just going in to do the bare minimum would make Neal ache inside. Neal had learned to bear it, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

He wanted to help, for Peter's sake, but this whole thing was threatening to wrench up memories that Neal had carefully buried—and he'd buried them for good reasons. They were things that he couldn't handle, not now, not like he was. Reviving that… it would destroy the man he had so carefully rebuilt after prison had wrenched him back to being that worthless kid with no name. Neal had been out of prison for almost three years and, somedays, he *still* didn't feel like a whole person. There were some days when it was *still* just a facade. He couldn't risk that doing this might bring him crashing down to that point again. Not when he had worked so, so hard to become Neal Caffrey again.

It wasn't worth it, just to save a bunch of rags covered in paint. The may have been priceless in an artistic sense, but they weren't worth more than Neal's soul, were they? If he even had a soul. Sometimes he wasn't so sure. Maybe he was really some sort of creature of evil and didn't even know it. That would explain a lot. Why that happy little kid had grown up to be such a bad person. Why everyone around him either wanted to hurt him or ended up being hurt *by* him. Why all the people that he'd thought had loved him had broken his heart. Why every time he got his life together, something came along and broke him again.

Peter… Peter would just have to understand, or at least accept it. As much as he wanted to prove himself to the man, Neal wasn't willing to take the risk. Not for some stupid art. He was a human being, not something to be bought and sold, not anymore. Maybe that scared kid wasn't worth more, but Neal Caffrey was. He *was*, and anyone who said that he wasn't was *wrong.* Peter would understand. He would. If Neal could just figure out a way to explain it to him without sounding like a desperate child and losing all the respect he'd managed to reap over these last few years.

"Hey, Caffrey, I heard you're going in as the freaky fence's boy toy. What's your boyfriend think of that, sweetheart?"

Neal's shoulders tensed a little as he looked over at Agent Tanner's smirking face. He kind of wanted to punch it, but there was no point. Tanner had decided the day he'd met Neal that he was a flaming homosexual. Something about the flower on his lapel. And it was clear that Tanner was not fond of homosexuals. 'We don't ask, we don't care' might be Peter's motto, but not everyone in the Bureau felt the same.

"You know, he actually thinks it's kind of hot," Neal said, smiling plastically as he reached out and caught Tanner's mustard-stained tie, reaching up to straighten it. The fact that the man practically leapt away from his touch gave him some satisfaction anyway. Didn't want to catch the gay disease or whatever. "You know, he looks a lot like you…"

Okay, seeing that shade of red on Tanner's pock-marked cheeks was better than a punch to the face any day. The man had apparently decided he had other places to be, because he was halfway across the room already. Neal smirked. Nothing like making a meatheaded troglodyte question their sexuality to improve a man's mood.

"Hey, Neal, I think Peter wants to see you," one of the Harvard crew said as she passed, case file in hand.

Neal let out a sigh as he glanced up to see Peter pointing down at him, then tipped his Styrofoam cup back like a shot glass. He hated the double finger point. Damn the FBI and all its double finger pointing. He was really starting to wonder if Peter's little comment about teaching it at Quantico had been more than a joke.

"Neal, get up here!"

Neal tossed his cup into the trash as he turned, holding up his hands, face calm and confident. He was such a good con. No one would ever know that he was practically shaking in his Italian leather at the thought of talking to Peter about this… situation.

"Whoa, calm down, soldier. I'm coming, okay!" He grinned at the other man as he climbed the stairs, trying to ignore the churning feeling in his gut. Obviously Peter really, really wanted his answer, if he was double finger pointing *and* shouting in an undignified way across the office. Unfortunately for both of them, Neal still didn't know how to tell him 'no'… Not and still keep a shred of his pride anyway. He took a steadying breath as Peter gestured for Neal to follow him to the conference room.

Okay, he could do this. He would just tell Peter that he had some bad experiences that he really didn't want to talk about and that he'd be no good for this job. Peter would accept that. After all, he had been the one to say that Neal didn't *have* to do it. He could find someone else.

Neal reached out just as Peter's hand reached for the doorknob, catching the bigger man's jacket. "Peter I need to talk to you before—"

"No time, Neal," Peter said briskly, voice unusually clipped. "We need to do this, now."

Neal frowned. "I just wanted to say, about the, uh, undercover job—"

"Huh? Oh, you're no longer needed for that. You'll be in the van." Peter pulled the door open and gestured for Neal to enter. "Come on, we need to get started."

Neal stared at Peter for a moment, mouth hanging open in a rather undignified way. He was no longer needed for that? What the hell? After he'd spent all night tossing and turning trying to decide if he could manage it, Peter had just decided he was 'no longer needed for that'?

"Dammit, Peter," he snapped, suddenly very annoyed, despite the fact that it should have been a relief. "Feel free to keep me updated on these things! You do know how to use a phone, right? You pick it up, hit the speed dial, put it to your ear… that sort of thing?"

Peter sighed. "Neal, just get in the conference room, okay?"

"I'm just sayin'," he replied, holding up his hands again. "I know it's a complicated task, but—"

"For God's sake, Neal, two people are dead, okay? I don't have time for you to throw a tantrum!" Peter said shortly, shaking his head as he slammed the file against the door. "Dammit!"

"Oh my God," Neal said, color draining from his face. "How? Did someone get caught in the fire?"

Diana nodded. "Yeah, our guys set fire to another gallery. What they didn't realize—or what we hope to God they didn't realize—was that the artist the gallery had flown in for the show was staying in the loft above. With his twelve year old daughter."

Neal's stomach turned. "Oh God, the kid died?"

"Yeah," Peter said, his voice gruff. "She did." He sounded hoarse, tired.

Neal reached out automatically, hand pausing just before it came down on top of Peter's, then pulled his hand back as casually as possible, hoping Diana hadn't noticed his little faux pas.

"Our perps got away with an unknown amount of art," Diana said. "Place burned to the ground. These guys have upped their game."

"They haven't used accelerant before," Peter added. "They'd just set a couple of canvases ablaze and make a quick exit with their prizes. This time there was nothing left but ash."

"God… Maybe this is crazy, but… this kind of sounds like a pyromaniac," Neal said, trying hard not to imagine some poor little girl burning to death. "I mean, they started with a private studio with only one valuable painting to grab, in the middle of the night. Then they moved on to the museum, with a night guard. Then they hit that gallery in the middle of the day when it was full of tourists, but everybody got out. And now they're using accelerant with people sleeping in the building?" He shook his head. "Sounds like classic pyromania. Start with small, empty spaces and gradually move up."

"That's what out profilers think, too," Diana said. "We got some footage from a traffic cam nearby and it looks like one of our guys likes to play with fire more than the other. One of the men seemed pretty damn upset when they got into the van, waving his hands around and shouting. The other guy just moseyed along like it was all good."

"So one of them is in it for the grab," Neal said slowly, "and the other one is in it for the fire."

"It gives us some leverage if we can get them into interrogation," Peter said. "But first we have to catch them. And we are *not* going to wait another week. Our pyro is moving up—I don't want him to have a chance to start another fire. These bastards have brand new pieces to sell, it's likely they'll go to Melbane. So we're going in right away. Between the two we should be able to find an agent with undercover training. Diana, you get a wire ready that doesn't look like a ten thousand dollar watch. Neal, you—"

"I'll do it." The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about it.

Peter snorted. "I haven't even told you what to do yet."

Neal shook his head. "No, I mean I'll go in. Undercover. So that you won't have to find anybody. I'll do it."

Peter shook his head roughly. "Uh-uh. We've already got someone."

Neal's brow furrowed. "What, who?"

A laugh came from came from down below, followed quickly by a loud wolf whistle. Neal's eyes grew wide, mouth dropping open as his brain tried desperately to compute the image before him. Diana let out a sharp laugh, clamping a hand over her mouth as Peter turned to glare at her.

"Oh my God," Neal said slowly, drawing out the words as more laughter rose up down in the bullpen. "Am I going crazy or is Clinton standing in the middle of the room wearing a purple crop top and a pair of skinny jeans?"

Diana didn't seem capable of talking, her eyes watering as she continued to hold her hands over her mouth, so Neal turned to Peter, raising an eyebrow.

"Seriously, Peter? *Seriously*?"

"Two people are dead, Neal," he said flatly, though his cheeks were a little pink as he watched Jones shove his co-worker away ungracefully, a huge scowl on his face. "We gotta work with what we have."

It was ridiculous looking. Just plain ridiculous looking. As attractive as Jones was, this getup was just pitiful. The man was too big, too muscular, too old, even, to pull off the sparkly little tank top, and though Neal was sure his ass looked fabulous in the jeans, it was definitely not his style.

"Peter," Neal said, shaking his head, "he looks like an undercover cop, man." He gave a short laugh. "I mean, seriously. He looked like he just walked out of the Vice office, looking to arrest a couple of johns before daybreak. Do you really this is going to work?"

Jones was making his way up the stairs, eyes shooting daggers as he sort of wrapped his arms around him like it could hide the fact that he was dressed like a teenaged girl. "Shut up, Caffrey," he muttered before Neal could even open his mouth. "Just… shut up, okay?" He shook his head, baring teeth. "This is fucking ridiculous, Burke."

"He's right you know," Diana said, hiccuping a little, tears of laughter still running down her cheeks. "There is no way that he is going to pass as a hustler, Peter."

"Well, do you have any suggestions?" Peter snapped, looking annoyed. He let out a deep sigh. "Two people are *dead*, and one of them was a little girl! These guys have broken the pattern, upped the anty, and we have no clue when they might strike again. We need to get into Melbane's house *now*, and Jones is the best we've got!"

"Yeah, and what happened to Caffrey?" Jones snapped, obviously annoyed. He scowled in Neal's direction. "How did you manage to get out of this? You run to his wife?"

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Shut up, Jones. I assigned you to this one, and you're gonna do it."

"But it's not going to work, Peter," Neal said, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. On any other day, seeing Jones dressed like that would be flat out hilarious, but today he was too damn tired and stressed to appreciate. Hopefully someone would get a picture and he could laugh his ass off later when he didn't have the weight of the goddamn world resting on his shoulders. "I'll do it, okay? This is ridiculous, sending Jones out there. All it will do is make Melbane suspicious. I'll go."

"No," Peter said shortly, a strange look passing over his face as he looked at Neal. "No, I don't want you going. This is Jones' op now."

Diana frowned deeply, laughter wiped off her face. "Peter, Neal is right. Jones looks like trouble. He is *not* the kind of guy Melbane goes for. The sick pervert likes *kids* for God's sake, pretty boys. And Jones may be many thing, but he ain't pretty. Caffrey, on the other hand… He's almost as pretty as my lady."

"Peter," Neal said, his voice serious. "I'll do it, okay? I'll do it."

Peter took a deep breath, looking back and forth between Jones and Neal for a moment before letting out a tired sigh. "You sure, Neal? You don't have to if you don't want to."

Neal ignored his turning stomach, looking Peter right in the eyes. "No, it's okay. We need to get these guys. The bastards burned a little girl to death. I'll do anything to put them away where they belong."

Even if 'anything' meant giving up every last shred of his dignity.

Peter stared at him for another moment then gave a sharp nod. "Okay, great. You go out, get whatever you need to play the part on the Bureau's tab. Diana, you see about that wire."

"Sure thing, boss."

Peter clapped Neal on the shoulder. "Okay, I'm going to set up the op. I'll text you our meet up location."

Neal nodded silently, watching silently as Jones started yanking at his sparkly top and mumbling something about sexual harassment lawsuits as he glared down at the agents still pointing in his direction and making lewd faces. As if lewd faces were the worst thing that could happen to a man dressed like that.

Neal licked his lips nervously. He could do this. He could. It wasn't such a big deal. And, yeah, okay, probably Peter would never respect him again. No, that wasn't true. Peter would just think he was playing a part. Except Neal was pretty sure that, if he wanted in Melbane's house, something less than professional was going to have to happen, despite Peter's protests. What would the other man think of him then?

It didn't matter. He already knew that Neal was a criminal. A whore was just one more step down the highway to hell, right? He wouldn't lose those casual little touches, that friendly smile. He wouldn't lose the only man he trusted.

Of course, he wouldn't even be in this position if the only man he trusted hadn't set it up.

The thought took Neal by surprise and he shoved it away, feeling a little sick. This was not Peter's fault, he knew that. Peter had given him a choice. That was more than most men had given him. Neal had chosen to do this and there was no one to blame but himself, no matter what happened. If something went wrong, if Neal had to do more than just sit there and look pretty, he would have no one to blame but himself. Stepping onto that street corner was his decision. Peter hadn't made it for him… Even if it had been the other man's idea.

No, there he went again. He trusted Peter. He did. The man was not trying to hurt him, for God's sake! He didn't even know about Neal's history with this kind of thing. Right? Peter had once told him they had nothing on Neal before eighteen. He wasn't lying. Was he?

Neal couldn't help but remember how Peter's eyes had immediately fixed on him when Jones had asked who was going to be playing the whore, how the man just seemed to assume that it would be all fine and dandy with Neal. He said it was because Neal fit the profile, physically. But maybe he knew more about Neal than Neal realized. Maybe he'd looked to Neal because he knew how perfect Neal fit the profile, in every way. It was awfully naive of an FBI agent to think that you could go undercover as a street whore, no more than twenty bucks a fuck, and not have to get down and dirty. When Neal had protested Peter had actually laughed and said that he knew Neal could handle it. What if he really meant that?

Oh, for the love of God, he was starting to sound as paranoid as Mozzie. Bullshit, it was all a bunch of bullshit. Peter didn't know crap about Neal's childhood. Neal just needed to calm the fuck down. Neal would just do what he had to do and get out. The rest he could worry about later. It was a mindset had worked for him when he was fifteen, it would work for him now. It was only a con.

Peter caring for him, *that* wasn't a con. …Was it?

"Neal, are you okay?" Neal was jolted from his maudlin thoughts by Diana's voice. She reached out, touching his arm gently, the motion much more familiar than usual.

"Hm?" He flashed her his million dollar smile. "Of course, I am. Just thinking about the op."

Diana bit her lip, giving him a long look. "Neal, come talk to me a minute, will you?" She didn't wait for him to answer, using his wrist to tug him down toward the empty conference room.

The doors shut softly behind them and Diana perched herself on the edge of the table, crossing her arms over her chest. "Neal, have you ever heard of RAINN?"

Neal's brow furrowed in confusion. "Uh, yeah, I've seen it once or twice in my life. Tends to be good for raising crops and filling lakes."

Diana shook her head. "Not actual rain, R-A-I-N-N. The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network."

"Wh-what?" Neal choked out, eyes growing wide. "No, no I can't say I've ever heard of… RAINN. Diana, what is this about?"

She let out a sigh. "Look, Christy sees a lot of… victims. And, as a woman, you would be surprised how many of my friends have had… bad experiences. I'm sorry if I'm out of line here, but let's face the facts. You're a young, attractive, white man who was placed in one of the most hardcore federal prisons in the US. You didn't do anything near bad enough to get yourself locked up in the torture chambers they call SuperMax, so something must have happened for them to stick you there. Something bad. And the way you looked yesterday when Peter, God bless his big, dumb heart, told you that your next op would involve standing on a street corner? That wasn't just normal male pride. Jones shoving at those assholes down on the floor was male pride. You yesterday? That was fear. Real fear."

Neal shook his head, forcing himself to keep his smile in place. "Look, Diana, I appreciate the thought, but it's nothing like that, okay?"

Diana stared at him for another moment then shrugged. "That's fine, Neal. I'm just saying, if anything *did* happen… It wouldn't be the first time, and there are a lot of people out there who've gone through that sort of stuff. A good support network. You can always look it up." She stood and made her way toward the door, giving his little arm a squeeze as she passed him. "See you tonight, Neal."

"Yeah," he said, feeling like the smile on his face was about to shatter into a million pieces. "See you tonight."

As the door closed behind her, Neal let out a groan, rubbing at his forehead. Great. That was just what he needed: Diana thinking of him as some sort of in denial, closet case rape victim or whatever. Seriously, this day kept getting better and better. And it wasn't even noon yet. God help him.

Neal took a deep breath, pushing aside his embarrassment at Diana's little love attack. He needed to focus on the con. That was priority number one, getting through the con. Preferably without having a panic attack.

He just needed to think about it objectively, separate from the emotional sewage left over from years of pain and depression. Break it down into facts and steps. Fact: Peter was putting his ass on a street corner tonight. So what was step one? Well, first thing he needed was to look like a whore—and not the kind that cost you eighteen-hundred up front. And preferably not the kind that wore sparkly purple crop tops, either. Seriously, who had gotten that shirt for Jones and where had it come from, Lady Gaga's reject pile? Step one, if he was going to sell his butt tonight… it was time to go shopping.


	5. Chapter 5: Forever Burned

_See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)

**Author's Notes:** Another day, another chapter! :) Finally seeing a bit of the M rating action here, though maybe not in the happiest sense, LOL!

o o o

**Chapter 5: Forever Burned**

The checkout girl stared at him through her long, emo bangs, the piercings above and below her lips making the smirk on her face look a bit awkward. Her hair was that nasty almost-blue color of fading dye, frizzy from over bleaching, a less than flattering look. She was also overweight, but wore a corset so tight that her breasts were pretty much hanging out, covered only by retro tattoos of Mom hearts and anchors and colorful swallows swooping down over flowers. Just alternative enough to be the same as every other teen out there looking to put one over the Man. Ah, the irony of it all. But, like all teens, she obviously felt that her not-quite-on-the-edge punk look made her superior to human beings who shopped at Dillard's instead of Hot Topic, her cold gaze practically screaming at Neal that he didn't belong. Never mind that his suave, Rat Pack look was just as retro as her damn tattoos and her Betty Boop print mini skirt. The only difference being that she looked like a train wreck while he looked like a young Dean Martin.

Neal continued to ignore her, her gaze was like an itch on his neck, as he flipped through a rack of appropriately androgynous shirts. Places like this didn't really have men's and women's sections, a smart move considering that half their female patrons were as big as men and half the male patrons dressed like women.

Neal had already found a pair of jeans that definitely deserved the name on the label. Freak Nasty Apparel. Hell, this whole place was freak nasty, but the pair of jeans he'd found had taken it a whole new level. They were obscenely tight on him, so tight that he'd had to hold his cock and balls down with one hand as he slid them up, and had so many holes that you could see more skin than denim. They were perfect for tricking, however. Their tightness was an asset in that field, not only good for attracting johns but also for making sure that the only hands in your pants would be those with your permission to touch.

For his face and hair he'd grabbed some glittery gel off the shelves along with a tube of black eyeliner, and he'd picked up a pair of black Doc Martins on a whim. He could have worn the old pair of roughed up trainers in the back of his closet that he hadn't gotten around to throwing out, but it always paid to wear shoes heavy enough for you to put a slit in the front of the sole. It was the perfect place to hide cash, and even condoms if you could make them fit.

Not that Neal was going to need that, of course, but it never hurt to be practical.

Now all he needed was a shirt, and maybe some cheap jewelry. Gotta have a little fake bling if he wanted to be street. His lip twitched in amusement as he held up a sparkly purple top that reminded him of the one Clinton had shown up in. Wearing it would make for a good laugh at the other man's expense, but a whore was better off fading into the shadows and that was hard to do when wearing a shirt that shined like a prop at a Lady Gaga concert every time a streetlight hit it. Neal definitely didn't want to attract the cops, and the best way to keep them off your back was to be a subtle as possible. They had better things to do than deal with skinny white boys sitting in alleyways, after all. Neal put the shirt back on the rack with a final chuckle and continued flipping through the clothes. Too pink. Too skimpy. Not skimpy enough. Oh, hell no, was he wearing lime green. Or a corset.

"Hey, man."

Neal startled slightly, caught up in his analysis of slut clothes, raising an eyebrow when he saw a kid standing next to him. Okay, well, he wasn't *dressed* much like a kid, but he was definitely a kid, despite the shiny black tights and the denim vest with no shirt underneath. No way was this short, skinny boy a day over fourteen. Maybe even younger. He barely came up to Neal's shoulders. His kohl smeared eyes, however, spoke of a much older soul than what his gangly body and baby face would suggest. His hair was dyed black and styled into a faux hawk, lips smeared with pink gloss, and Neal got a glimpse of metal as the kid nervously chewed on his lip. Tongue piercing, no doubt. Good for blow jobs and getting food stuck in your mouth.

"Can I help you?" Neal said politely, as if it was perfectly normal for a man in an Italian suit to be standing in the middle of Strippers R Us.

The kid smiled nervously, his eyes darting around, refusing to meet Neal's for more than a second. His shoulders were hunched forward, legs ever so slightly bent, and his hands were hanging awkwardly at his sides where Neal could clearly see them, a sort of peace offering that spoke of street smarts.

"Who you buying for?" the boy asked, his voice as young as him face, the words cracking slightly. He obviously wasn't more than a few steps into puberty, yet here he was dressed like a cross between Ru Paul and Marilyn Manson.

Neal glanced down at the basket full of clothes sitting at his feet, then back up at the kid. "Why do you ask?" He kept his tone commanding but quiet, not wanting to scare the kid but also not wanting to give him the idea that Neal's wallet might be an easy mark.

The boy shifted from foot to foot, reaching up and scratching at the back of his head, like he just needed something to do with his hands. "I just figured if you was buying for your boys… I'm on the lookout for some… management, if ya know whats I mean." His eyes flickered toward the dressing rooms. "Could show you what I can do, right now if ya wants. Can suck ya 'til you're hard then ya can fuck meh." He shrugged. "Or whatevers you want, obviously." His smile grew, a glint of hope in his brown eyes. "I think I'm pretty good, yeah? Or not bad, anyways. Don't need no big cut. Just… Just enough for mah rent, yeah?" He paused, then added, seemingly out of nowhere, "I like your hat." The words came out childish, and the kid blushed a little, looking away.

Neal's fingers lifted automatically to touch the brim of his fedora, his mind racing. God, the kid thought he was a pimp? The mere idea made him feel ill, but what had he expected, coming to a neighborhood like this dressed in a fancy suit with a fucking pocket square and a goddamn hat, a thousand dollar watch on his wrist and shoes that glinted in the sunshine? He was dressed like Pimp of the Year.

"Kid," he said gruffly, the sick feeling in his stomach refusing to ease as he stared into those big eyes. "I'm not a pimp."

Neal grimaced as the boy's face fell, shoulders drooping as his eyes went to the floor, disappointment written clearly across his face. You knew you weren't exactly living in a fairytale world when the words 'I'm not a pimp' made a tween boy look like he was going to cry out of sadness.

"Here," Neal said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He didn't carry a lot of cash, but he was pretty sure he had a couple twenties. He fished them from his wallet and held them out to the kid. "Take this."

The kid reached out very slowly, eyeing Neal like he was a wild animal who might bite, then grabbed the bills from his fingers in a movement almost too fast to see, pulling them in tight to his body. He stared at Neal with wide eyes for a moment, like he thought the older man might try to attack him, then slowly relaxed when Neal simply stood there, carefully schooling his face to hide the rush of pity that had washed over him. Kids like this didn't want pity. They were too busy trying to survive to have time for pity.

"You… You want a fuck for it?"

"No," Neal said hoarsely, shaking his head. "That's… Not my thing. You can have it. Just… don't waste it on drugs. That stuff isn't worth it. Buy yourself some food or some warm clothes or something."

The kid shrugged, looking a little befuddled at the idea that someone would just hand him cash. "I just needs it to pay mah rent."

"Right," Neal said softly. "Well, you do that… What was your name?"

The boy's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the question. "I ain't got no name. None thats you need to know, anyway," he said shortly, already backing away. "I'm nobody. Thanks for the cash."

He took off before Neal could say another word, dashing for the door like the devil himself was on his heels, not even glancing back. He was a smart kid, getting out while the world was still turning in his favor. When life had been handing out lemons for years and suddenly started spurting lemonade, a kid like that *should* be suspicious. Taking the candy then ditching the stranger was always the best way to go. Real smart kid. Smarter than Neal had ever been.

He swallowed hard as he turned back to the rack, wondering idly if the tears in his eyes were for the boy he'd just met or the boy he'd once been himself.

.

"_Hey there." Neal said, doing his best to keep his eyes on the ground even as he creeped closer to the tall, attractive man sitting at a small table next to the bar. He was dressed real fancy, in a slick looking suit and a hat like goddamn Frank Sinatra used to wear. He had a vest on with one of those weird watches that you tied to yourself with a chain, and Neal was pretty sure that his cuff links were real diamonds. They didn't shine like any cubic zirconia that Neal had ever seen._

_The man looked up, raising an eyebrow in his direction. Neal thought he saw a glimpse of disgust on the man's face for an instant before it was schooled back into a friendly smile, but that didn't bother him much. Lots of people looked at him with disgust. And there was no reason they shouldn't. A fourteen year old boy dressed in Daisy Dukes and a crop top wasn't exactly family entertainment. _

_Disgust or not, the man was smiling now and he didn't tell him to fuck off or anything, so Neal took another step toward the table, trying to ignore the enticing smell of grease and salt rising up from the french fries the man had been idly moving around in their basket for the past half hour or so. God, Neal was so fuckin' hungry. _

_Though he had money in his pocket, Neal knew there was no way he was gonna have a good meal tonight. He had to pay his rent or Barney would take all his stuff from his room to sell and *still* make Neal suck him off. Fucking landlords. Maybe if he Dumpster dived behind the McD's he could find something still wrapped and not too old. But, God, those fries looked like heaven._

"_What's up, kid?" The man's voice was friendly, eyes looking Neal up and down in an interested but not particularly sexual way. There was no disgust now, which Neal took for a good sign. He didn't know for sure what this guy's angle was, but there weren't too many reasons for a man that looked like him to be in a hood like this. He was richer than your average john. The diamond cufflinks attested to that. He could find better ass further downtown. But he wasn't tough enough to be a drug dealer, even if he had the bling. His body language was too open, too honest. Dealers were always on the edge of their fucking seats in case their competition tried to take 'em out. So Neal figured that he was either a very lost tourist or a pimp. Or maybe a sugar daddy looking to collect cheap ass for his sugar daddy friends._

_Either way was fine with Neal. Truth was, he could use a pimp. Maybe they tended to be shit heads, but they got you lots of work, more work than Neal could come up with on his own—mostly because so many of the johns had regular boys they saw, a sort of unspoken contract set up by, well, the boys' pimps. Considering that he hadn't had any food that didn't come from a trash can in over a week, he'd take any help he could get. He was already turning at least four tricks a night. How could a pimp be any worse?_

_Neal shuffled his feet as he stared down at the table, inspecting the grain so he didn't have to look the man in the eye. He didn't want to seem like a threat or anything. "I just saw you'd been here for awhile and thought maybe you'd like some… companionship?"_

_The man gave a short laugh and Neal looked up, brow crinkling at the amused look on the man's face._

"_Some companionship, huh? You talk awfully pretty for a kid young enough to be my son standing there in shorts so tiny they could be mistaken for a wide belt."_

_Neal gave him a half smile, not sure if the man thought that was a good or bad thing. "I, uh, read a lot."_

"_Oh?" The man said, looking interested. "What do you read, kid?"_

_Okay, this was not exactly the conversation he'd been looking to have, but… "I really like the classics. Moby Dick. Pride and Prejudice. The Scarlet Letter. All those Narnia books. As You Like It is my favorite play."_

"_Oh, a fan of Shakespeare, are we?"_

_Neal shrugged. "The comedies, anyway. I think the tragedies are really sad. Every time I hear some lady saying that they've found the Romeo to their Juliet, I wanna be, like, 'You know they fuckin' died, right? You know they both fuckin' died?'"_

_The man burst into laughter. "I know that feeling. Though, I must admit, some of my favorite plays by Shakespeare are tradgedies. Hamlet, Othello, oh and Titus Andronicus. Have you read that one?" He didn't wait for an answer, gesturing toward the empty chair across from him. "Why don't you sit down?"_

_Neal's stomach twisted as his survival instincts shot through his veins, encouraging him to run long and hard from the seemingly friendly man, but he pushed it down, settling himself in the chair. His hands clenched on the edge of the table as he tried to think up a polite way to ask what he wanted to ask. Finally, he decided that there really *wasn't* a polite way. He might as well spit it out. "So… you a pimp?"_

_The man started, mouth dropping open, a shocked look coming over his. "What? Hell, no, I'm not a pimp, kid." He frowned and Neal noticed little wrinkles forming at the sides of his mouth at the movement. "Why, does your pimp think I'm here trying to get into his territory. God, I hope not! I didn't dress for a gang fight!" He let out a laugh, though it sounded more nervous than anything else._

"_No, no," Neal said quickly, cheeks turning red. "I don't have a pimp. That… that's why I was asking, you know? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out."_

_The man's frown deepened, the lines becoming thicker. Funny, he didn't seem like a guy who frowned a lot. "You mean you're looking to get in with a pimp? Why the hell would you want to do that, kiddo? That's crazy!"_

_Neal shrugged. "Maybe it seems nuts to you, but a guy's got to eat, you know. Or, as Karl Marx would say, 'reason has always existed, but not always in a reasonable form.'"_

_The man burst into laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are a smart one, boy. Hey, if you're hungry enough to quote Marx… you want a fry?"_

_Neal blinked. "You don't mind?" he asked disbelievingly. Around here people didn't share their food. A basket of french fries was practically fucking gold amongst kids like him._

_The man shook his head, leaning back in his seat. "Not at all. Consider it my gift to the proletarian class." He laughed again. "I'm not hungry, to be honest. Don't even know why I ordered them."_

_That was all the permission needed. Neal dove into the fries, shoving several into his mouth at once. God, who would have through grease and salt could taste like motherfucking manna on the tongue? _

"_So, kid, what's your name?"_

_Neal looked up. It wasn't a question he usually answered. "Around here they call me No-Name," he said casually._

_The man's eyebrows shot up, eyes twinkling in amusement. "No-Name, huh? A bit crude, that. Let's see… In German that would be Namenlos. And in French… "_

"_Sans Nom?" Neal provided helpfully, giggling a little at the idea._

_The man nodded seriously, though you could still see the amusement in his eyes. "And in Japanese that would be Nanashi, yes? That's much more poetic sounding. I suppose I could stand calling you Nanashi…" He shook his head. "But come on, you have to have a name. If we're going to banter about the classics, I have to know your name."_

_Neal hesitated, a fry half way to his mouth. He didn't tell anybody his real name. But this guy obviously wasn't from around here, and talking to him was pretty fun. What could it hurt? "Neal," he said slowly, the word sounding almost foreign on his tongue. "The name's Neal."_

"_Neal," the man murmured. "A nice name, that. Much better than Sans Nom. I'm Charles."_

"_That's a nice name, too."_

_Charles smiled, his perfectly straight teeth practically glinting in the florescent lighting of the bar. "I guess you like fries, huh, Neal?" He nodded at the now almost empty basket and Neal blushed. _

"_Uh, yeah, I was just hungry." Neal blushed again, embarrassed. _

"_You're too thin anyway, kid," Charles said, winking at him as he pushed his half-finished beer in his direction. "Here, you drink this, I'll order us some nachos, and we'll talk some more about that Shakespeare you like so much."_

_Neal smiled, last bits of nervousness fading away as Charles stood up and headed for the bar, flashing him a grin in return. Neal took a swig of the beer as he watched the man's back at the counter, thinking idly that this might be kind of fun._

_It was the last thing he remembered._

_o o o  
><em>

_Neal awoke with a whimper, completely disoriented. His head was thick, like it was filled with molasses, and the world seemed to swim around him. Where was he? _

_He whimpered again as he tried to move and found his hands bound to…to… He shook his head, trying to clear his mind enough to translate the pictures he was receiving. He was tried to… a headboard? No, not tied. Duct taped, which was a thousand times worse. There was no slipping out of duct tape. Neal let out a sob as he yanked at the bonds, fighting the urge to panic at the much too familiar feelings of being bound. _

_Okay, he needed to calm down, assess the situation, something that wasn't going to be easy considering how fuzzy his mind felt. He turned his head as much as he could, straining the muscles in his neck, in an attempt to acquire a clue about where the hell he was and how the fuck the had gotten there._

_There was a television in the corner, the old box style with rabbit ears, and a doorway leading into a filthy little bathroom. To the other side was a nightstand with a bottle of lube on it, light shining through the ripped shade of a lamp, making his head pound. He couldn't turn enough to see behind him, but he was definitely tied up spread eagle, with what felt like handcuffs holding his ankles to the frame beneath the mattress._

_So, he was in a motel room, that much was clear, and a trashy one at that. In fact, it looked a lot like the place he was living right now. But how had he ended up here? Last thing he remembered, he'd been in a bar… in a bar doing what? Talking… talking to a man. Charles. That's right. Charles Not-A-Pimp, who called him Nanashi and made jokes about Marx. _

_Then after that… nothing._

_Neal let out a defeated moan, allowing his head to drop down on the pillow, muscles going slack. He was a street kid. He knew what it meant when one second you were chatting with a strange man, drinking a beer, and the next you were in a motel room, tied to a bed, feeling like shit. This was not, unfortunately, the first time it had happened, though usually the men were a lot less poised and a lot more dirty than Charles had been. If Charles was even his name. Oh yeah, Neal knew what had happened, indeed. That didn't mean he liked it._

_Goddamn the bastard who created roofies._

"_Fuck, fuck, fuck," he muttered, tears running down his cheeks as his heart sped up, making sweat trickle down his face. He couldn't get it with his shoulder, so he had to wipe it on the pillow, something that was less than pleasant since the pillow smelled distinctly like urine. _

_Neal's head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and he was pretty sure that he was just on the edge of puking. Fucking rohyphenol. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," he said again, more of a cry of defeat than anything. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"_

"_Yes, that would be the idea." The sound of Charles' smooth voice behind him made Neal flinch and try to crane his neck again. "So, Neal, you never did tell me… *Have* you read Titus Andronicus?"_

_Blunt nails ran down his back, making Neal shiver as they reached his buttocks, tracing the curves of his cheeks. The mattress dipped on one side and a heaviness pressed against Neal as Charles settled himself between Neal's spread legs, a hand on each thigh supporting most of the man's weight. Neal tugged ineffectively at the handcuffs binding his ankles to the bed, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips as Charles slapped a hand down hard on his ass, leaving a livid red print behind._

"_I asked you a question, little Neal," Charles said, warning in his voice. "Have you read Titus Andronicus?"_

_Neal blinked, trying to think through the fuzz making up his mind. Titus Andronicus… Titus Andronicus… It was… Shakespeare. That was right. It was Shakespeare's… His first tragedy? Yeah, that was it. "I-It's a play. By Shakespeare," he managed to croak out, though his throat felt dry and swollen. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his mind. "About… about…" God, what was it about? He couldn't quite remember… "I don't remember what it was about," he admitted, the words almost a plea. "I'm sorry. Please, please, please let me go." As if that ever worked. It had certainly never worked before._

"_You don't remember, huh?" Charles said, voice low and dangerous. The pressure disappeared from Neal's thighs, but he knew better than to hope it was over, that his pleas had done any good. It had only just begun._

_His suspicions were confirmed as something slick and large pressed between his butt cheeks. Fear shot through him as he realized that the man was planning to fuck him with no preparation at all. This was going to hurt like hell._

"_Well, maybe this will be a reminder…"_

_Neal let out a cry as the tip of the man's cock pushed into him, digging his nails into his own palm to try and distract from the burning ache in his ass._

_Suddenly Charles' lips were against Neal's ear, his breath soft on tear streaked cheeks. "Lavinia. Do you remember Lavinia, Neal?"_

_A jolt of terror shot through Neal as the words penetrated through the thick haze of his mind. "No!" He shouted, yanking at his bonds as hard as he could and using what little leverage he had to throw himself around on the mattress, doing his best to buck Charles off. "NOOO!" The words was a flat out scream. "NONONONONO!"_

"_Shut up!" Charles shouted, smacking him hard enough in the back of his head to make him feel woozy. "Shut up and lie still or I swear to God, I really will make you into Lavinia, slut!" There was some rustling, then Neal's vision went black, something rough jammed over his forehead and under his chin. He whimpered as he realized that Charles had pushed his fedora over his face, effectively blinding him. God, he hated not being able to see. _

_Neal went still with a moan, shoulders shaking with fear. He remembered Lavinia. Oh, God, he remembered Lavinia. How could he have forgotten Lavinia? Dragged off and raped, her tongue cut out and her hands chopped off to keep her from telling anyone who had done it. Though his head still felt like someone had stuffed it full of fluff, he could remember that now. He could remember that very, very clearly._

_Charles' cock was again pressing into Neal's ass, but this time he didn't fight it, forcing himself to remain still despite the screaming panic in his mind. Who knew what this bastard was capable of? Tears ran down Neal's cheeks and he let out a keening sound, hopelessness engulfing him as Charles' buried his dick as deep as it would go then yanked it out painfully only to shove it all the way back in. Over and over and over again he shoved and yanked, shoved and yanked, until Neal's asshole felt like he'd been fucked with a two by four, raw and splintered. Neal could feel blood leaking slowly out of his cheeks where the man had torn him open, almost as bad as the time his step-father had shoved his fist up there. But he didn't start thrashing again. He was a pro; he could handle it. He could choke down the terror and the pain and lie still like a good boy. Better to lay still and take it then risk of *really* being turned into Lavinia._

_He wouldn't be much good as a whore if he didn't have a tongue._

_Neal let out another quiet sob. Screaming and fighting was useless anyway. No one would come to help. No one cared enough to help. And in the end, no one would *ever* care enough to help. Charles didn't need to make him into Lavinia, with her stumps for arms and mangled tongue, because, unlike Lavinia, Neal didn't have anybody to tell._

_Neal didn't have anybody at all._

_.  
><em>

Neal wiped angrily at his eyes with the back of his hand, shoving the memories away. Fucking sick bastards and their fucking sick games. That kid was definitely smart to take his money and run as fast as possible instead of waiting around to see if he could beg a few more scraps off of him.

He took a deep, steadying breath and he held up a shirt, inspecting it with a critical eyes. It would do. It was better than going shirtless, anyway, and he wanted to get the fuck out of this store and get this damn op over with before he went insane. Seriously, he hadn't had this many flashbacks to his childhood since his first week in prison. It was nuts, and it was going to *drive* him nuts if he didn't get it under control. He just needed to remember, he wasn't alone anymore. He had Peter to help him. And Peter *would* help him. He really would.

Of course, wasn't that just all the more reason for someone to turn him into Lavinia, not that he had someone to tell?

Disgusted at the thought, Neal threw the shirt into his basket, resisting the urge to kick it across the room. When had he turned into such a pitiful wimp? He needed to fucking relax. It wasn't that bad. Peter would keep him safe. Everything would be okay. It would all turn out okay.

He wondered if that's what Lavinia thought.

Neal gritted his teeth, grabbing his basket angrily and heading for the cash register, annoyed at his own ability to twist everything into a damn metaphor for his fucked up life. He slammed the basket down on the counter, ignoring the startled look on Little Miss Emo's face as he pulled out his wallet and practically threw the credit card at her.

"I'll take these," he snapped, dumping the contents of the basket onto the counter.

Damn Shakespeare and all his twisted little tales of epic woe. Neal had never liked those goddamn tragedies anyway.

Peter tapped his fingers on the table, glancing at his watch for what seemed like the millionth time. Where the hell was Neal? Diana and Jones were already in place in the van. It was almost eight o'lock. They needed to get going! He'd been sitting in this trashy little pool hall for a hour. There was only so many times a man could ask for a Diet Coke while sitting at a full bar before a they started to suspect you were there representing Alcoholics Anonymous. How long did it take a man to buy some tight pants and slick back his hair or whatever?

"Hey," came a soft voice from beside him.

Peter caught a glimpse of fishnet and hunched his shoulders, staring pointedly at the glowing Budweiser sign. How many teenager boys wearing eyeliner and combat boots were going to hit on him tonight? "I'm not interested."

"Oh really? Why Peter, I'm wounded."

Peter started and turned his head, eyes widening as he took in the image beside him. Peter didn't even know how to describe it. He knew he was probably making a fish face, but daaamn. He'd never seen Neal look like this. Hell, he'd never even imagined Neal like this. It was way beyond Peter Burke's creative abilities.

Neal looked… beautiful. Yeah, beautiful. But he also looked… kind of cheap. The thought both irritated and aroused Peter. Neal was not cheap, he was intelligent and capable and charming and anyone who implied that he was anything else could take it up with Peter's fist. But at the same time… Damn he looked good in jeans cut so low they were almost obscene. Another half inch and you'd be able to see his cock.

Neal's shirt, if you could call it that, was like a muscle tee, cut off at the shoulders, but it was made of black fishnet and you could clearly see his nipples, his pecs, his abs. The shirt didn't quite go all the way to his *very* low pant line and a visible love trail ran from his belly button into his tauntingly tight jeans. Or what was left of his jeans. They had rips up and down them revealing patches of smooth skin and leaving pretty much nothing to the imagination. They were certainly tight enough to tell that Neal was going commando tonight.

Peter wondered idly if Neal always went commando then mentally slapped himself at the thought. He needed to keep his head tonight. Neal wasn't all dressed up to play the lead in Peter's fantasies. They had a very important job to do and some very bad men to catch.

Peter cleared his throat uncomfortably, trying his best to hide the effect Neal was having on him. His cheeks felt like they were on fire. "Neal, uh, hi. You look, uh, wow." Peter winced mentally. Good job there, buddy. Veeery smooth. God, he was so bad at talking sometimes.

For once Neal didn't have any sassy banter for him. In fact, he looked kind of nervous, a trait Peter was not used to seeing in him. Something about this particular gig was throwing Neal off and it worried Peter. He needed Neal to be thinking straight, but right now his eyes were kind of unfocused and he was chewing nervously on his heavily glossed lip. His hair wasn't slicked back, but it did sparkle in the streetlight coming in through the bar's dirty window, flecks of glitter reflecting back the colors around them.

Neal's always striking eyes stood out like gems in his face, the subtle black eye shadowing and mascara on his lashes making them look unbelievably blue, like a Caribbean sea somewhere. His lips were shiny and pink, pinker than they normally were, though not pink enough to make it look like he was wearing makeup. It was subtle but sexy. Not that Peter spent a great amount of time studying Neal's lips or anything, because that would be totally inappropriate of him. Right? Right.

He was wearing several cheap looking gold chains around his neck—definitely costume jewelry—and he had an obviously fake diamond in his left ear. Did Neal actually have pierced ears? Peter wasn't sure. The man was also wearing at least a dozen of those rubber-band looking bracelets that were so popular with teenagers lately on each wrist, and he had a ring on almost every finger.

"Here, let me take off your tracker. We don't need Melbane seeing that."

Neal nodded and obediently lifted his leg, planting his foot on a bar stool so that Peter could remove the anklet. Peter tried his best not to notice the way one of the rips on the inside of Neal's thigh stretched enticingly, pale skin shining through. God, he really was beautiful.

"So do you have my wire?" Neal questioned as Peter slipped the anklet in his pocket. "I'm guessing that we're not going to be using the million dollar watch."

Peter blinked, tearing his eyes away from Neal long enough to dig in his jacket pocket. "Uh, yeah, right here…" He pulled out a thick leather band with metal studs running along it. "Here you go. It was kind of sort notice, obviously, something Vice had in a backroom. Not totally up to our level, but it will have to do. We can hear you, but it doesn't have GPS." He raised an eyebrow, putting on his lecture face. "Don't even think about running off."

Neal just took the band silently—it was so, so strange to see Neal so silent—and put it on his left wrist, not even taking the chance to make some joke about going straight for airport or whatever.

"Neal," Peter said suddenly, "are you okay?"

Neal met his eyes and, for an instant, he looked like a little kid who'd just seen the boogie man then it was gone as fast as it had come, replaced by the pretentious confidence that Peter was used to. Neal jutted his hips forward in a very unsubtle way, a smirk coming over his face as Peter tried very, very hard not to look at, well, most of Neal considering that everything about him made Peter want to mutate into a caveman and throw him on the ground.

"Of course I'm all right, Agent Burke," Neal said, drawing out the words just a little too long. "Don't I look all right?" The smile that danced on his lips was very enticing, but Peter had seen enough of Neal's spontaneous smiles to know that it was just a game face, no meaning to it at all. "Don't I look *more* than all right?"

He took a step forward and suddenly those jutting hips were all up in Peter's personal space and Peter's lower parts jumped in welcome. Dammit, this was not what he needed tonight! They had a job to do!

Peter cleared his throat uncomfortably as he tried to get ahold of his hormones.. "Okay, cut the antics, Neal," he said in a teasing, if slightly forced, voice. "You're supposed to be playing a whore, not acting like one." The side of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "What would your mama think, boy?"

The words were just a joke, maybe not a very good one considering that half of his brain was busy staring at Neal's pecs, but Neal obviously didn't catch the humor, his mouth narrowing into a thin line. Peter winced at the look in his eyes.

Great, he'd fucked up again. He wasn't sure *how*, exactly, but he'd definitely fucked up. Neal was giving him the same glare that Elizabeth had shot him yesterday when she'd found out he'd washed his red socks with her white chiffon scarf. Well, it was pink now, but that wasn't the point.

"I didn't mean—"

"I get it," Neal said flatly, taking a pointed step back, his sharp eyes dark and unreadable. "I'll try my best to reign it in." He turned on his heel and walked toward the door, leaving Peter staring at his back.

Peter sighed, idly wishing Elizabeth was here. She would know what he'd done wrong. Whatever. He could figure out what was going on with Neal later. Right now they had a job to do.


	6. Chapter 6: Ashes to Ashes

_See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)

**Author's Notes: **Hey, everybody thanks for the awesome reviews-I adore feedback! To 'Kimmie' who wanted to know when/if Neal and Peter will get together and how many chapters this story will have... Well the meat of the plot (the action) is going to begin very soon, so while Peter and Neal *will* be getting together, it will be near the end of the story. As for how many chapters it has, I don't know. I don't plan out fanfic before I write it, I just go by the seat of my pants, and though I have another, oh, 15,000 words or so of this story already written (in first draft version), I don't have the whole thing done, so I can't even guess the number of chapters. Once again, thanks for the reviews. I'm glad ya'll are enjoying it! Oh, and if anyone doesn't have an account here but wants to ask me a question, you can go to the Livejournal address above and leave a comment anonymously. I try to respond to all comments on LJ and can answer any questions you have there if you can't PM me here! :)**  
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o o o

**Chapter 6: Ashes to Ashes**

"Okay, Neal, you remember, if anything goes wrong, get the hell out of there."

"I get it, Peter," Neal said in annoyance, ignoring the strange look a passing bag lady shot him. If the bag ladies thought he was crazy, he was in serious trouble. "I got it the first thirty times you told me." He reached up idly to adjust his earbud, pretending that he was scratching his head. "Will you just shut up already? People are going to start thinking I'm talking to my imaginary friend."

"I just want you to be *careful,* Neal." He had never heard Peter sound so much like a kicked puppy.

Neal sighed. At least the man had good intentions. Neal had been seriously hurt at the cutting remark Peter had made at the cafe. 'What would your mama think?' he'd said, a smart-ass grin on his face. But once he'd gotten over the initial rush of panic that Peter had somehow weaseled out a few pieces of Neal's past to use against him, he'd been able to admit to himself that Peter had only been teasing in his heavy-handed, awkward way. The man probably had no idea he'd hurt Neal's feelings. Lots of people had mommy issues, but how many had been thrown out of the house for 'seducing' their pervert step-dads? It had just been a joke, and if he *had* known about Neal's past then Peter wouldn't have made it at all. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe.

Besides, it was hard to stay angry with someone who'd spent three hours chatting nervously in your ear about staying safe, obviously on the edge at the idea that Neal might get hurt.

"Okay, well, I'm right here if anything goes wrong," Peter said for the fiftieth time. "Five seconds and I'm on them."

Neal frowned at that, suddenly suspicious. He was on them in five seconds? The van was a hell of a lot farther away than five seconds. Surely he wasn't… No, Peter wouldn't do anything to compromise the mission. He wouldn't be so stupid. Would he?

Neal narrowed his eyes and stepped out from the shadows of the hookah bar he'd been hanging around for the last few hours, tossing the random lascivious look at passing fat asses and trying to ignore Peter's chatter. He glanced around the street, cataloging what he saw. An old homeless man collecting cans, a scantily dressed woman teetering on a curb looking like she'd had a little too much to drink, an underage crack whore, a couple of gang bangers cruising along in their lowrider…

Ah, there he was, the softie. That 'law enforcement casual' suit he had on stood out like a traffic light, even if the dingy glass of the bar hid him respectably. Neal let out a sigh. He'd been stupid not to make sure Peter had left the bar after he did.

"I swear to God, Peter, get out of that damn bar and back to the van or I will mosey my skanky looking butt across the street, plant myself in your lap, and rub my face in your hair like a dog in heat." Take that, FBI man.

A smile played on his lips as he saw Peter's shoulders tense, head slowly turning to gaze at him through the glass. Were his eyes wider than usual or was Neal just imagining it? "Neal, I—"

"You're going to blow my cover," Neal cut in, scowling. "You stand out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood."

Peter let out a loud sigh. "I just want you to be safe—"

As if his sitting across the street in a bar was going to make Neal any safer. It took a lot less than five seconds to pull someone into your moving car. Then the gang bang could commence later, and all the Bureau Suits in the world wouldn't be able to stop it.

"Peter, I'm fine, dammit!" Neal said, despite his own reservations about the safety of wearing lip gloss and a fishnet shirt on a street corner. "But if you blow my cover after I've had to stand out here all night with my butt cheeks practically hanging out, I am going to kill you." He tugged at his jeans. "And don't even get me *started* about how my balls feel in these pants."

There was a chuckle on the line that definitely wasn't Peter—Clinton in the van, probably—then a long sigh.

"Okay, okay, I'll go back to the van," Peter said, sounding like that was the last thing he wanted to do. Pouty little agent-boy. "But seriously, Neal, if *anything* goes wrong, just stall and I'll be there, okay?"

"Thanks, Sir Lancelot," Neal replied with a snort, trying to pretend that he didn't find Peter's protectiveness kind of adorable. One thing you could count on Peter for was to look out for his people. It was nice, even if it was only a service rendered to Neal for doing his part for the Bureau. Neal didn't have many people to look after him, so anything counted. And in this case, Peter counted, which made him feel especially good.

Neal returned to the shadows of the hookah bar with a sigh, the brick scratching at his skin through the fishnet of his shirt. The trick to, well, turning tricks was to look provocative enough to catch someone's eye but discreet enough that no one really noticed you. It might have seemed like a catch-22, but once you got it down, it was pretty easy. All you had to do was stay in the background and make sure your hips were thrust forward enough to give all and sundry a good look at your junk. As long as you didn't make any trouble, the people who were looking for what you had to offer would find you but the police would leave you alone.

Well, that's how it usually went, anyway, but Murphy's Law must have been in serious effect that night because the moment Neal thought it, a man in blue appeared out of seemingly nowhere, eyes locking with Neal's as he sauntered down the sidewalk with one hand on his stick. But hey, at least it wasn't on his dick, right?

Seriously, Neal had the worst fucking luck in the universe. What had he done in his past life? Forged bonds for Hitler? Talked Van Gogh into suicide? Invented the mullet?

The beat cop was directly across the street from him now, but at least he wasn't looking at Neal anymore. Instead he was staring into the dirty window of the bar that Peter had been in minutes before, a deep frown on his face. Finally he moved on, shaking his head, and Neal was just about to relax when the man turned abruptly on his heel and stepped into the street. A cab had to screech to a stop for him and the cop threw a few curse words at the taxi driver, making Neal's stomach flutter. Great, not only was the cop headed toward him for reasons unknown, he was already riled up and ready to go.

Again with the past life thing. It must have been something *horrible.* But what was worse than inventing the mullet?

"Shit," Peter cursed in Neal's ear, his voice much clearer now than it had been before. He must have made it back to the van. Mics built into watches just couldn't live up to the high tech stuff in the van. "Don't worry, buddy. I'll come flash my badge at him."

"No," Neal said quietly, trying not to move his mouth much, eyes locked on the officer. "He's only a beat cop. He probably walks this route every night. I'm new, he probably just wants to say 'hi.' Red light districts aren't nearly as interesting for cops as you'd think. Picking up twelve year old crack whores isn't exactly satisfying, and not a lot else goes down. Sometimes they'll chat up the whores and the homeless just for something to do."

Neal didn't add that sometimes they wanted quite a bit more than simply a friendly 'hello.' Giving it up on the house for cops was pretty much the norm in wastelands like this. But for all they knew, this guy was just planning to take a puff at the hookah bar on his break time. No point in blowing Neal's cover when Melbane could show up at any moment.

"Guys, I'm gonna ditch the Law and Order issue Bluetooth in case the man in blue over there wants to chat me up," Neal said quietly. "I don't want him to notice and get suspicious. I should be back in fifteen, okay?"

"Neal don't you dare take out your earpiece—"

Peter's voice cut off as Neal plucked the device out of his ear, sticking the little bud in his pocket. Well, as best he could, anyway. His jeans were tight enough to make his cock ache *before* trying to add a hand in the back pocket. At least he knew nobody would be lifting his wallet tonight.

He could almost imagine the look on Peter's face as he cursed, cheeks turning red as he bitched about Neal's inability to follow orders. But it wasn't like they couldn't still hear him, and a little piece of rubber with a tiny wire on it was a pretty suspicious looking. If this cop saw it, what could he tell him? That he was already wearing a hearing aid, some kind of walking advertisement for not playing your iPod too loud?

"Hey, kid." The cop's voice was low and Neal tensed, nervous energy surging through him as the cop moseyed up next to him, leaning against the brick with one hand as he looked him up and down. Apparently the man wasn't here for the hookah lounge.

"Hello, officer." Neal pointedly dropped his eyes and hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself look as small and harmless as possible, the street equivalent of rolling over and showing your tummy to the alpha dog.

"You're new around here." His voice was even, and pretty much emotionless. Not much help in figuring out if the man was here to chat or to fuck.

Neal gave a sharp nod, eyes tracing the lines on the sidewalk in an effort to keep himself from looking the man in the eye. "Yeah, I am." He licked his lips nervously. "I, uh, don't usually work this neighborhood." He shuffled his feet, pretending to look at something on the hem of his shirt.

"Relax, kid, I'm not going to bite. I'm not here to sample the product, okay? Just wanted to meet the new guy." His voice was gruff, but there was a sense of kindness behind the words and Neal relaxed, exhaling all the tension in one big whoosh.

The cop was blunt, and Neal liked that. He'd said he didn't want to sample the product, so he didn't want to sample the product. No tricky wordplay or skirting the subject. Up front and honest. It made things easier. Even if he'd said, 'You're going to suck my dick tonight,' Neal would have felt safer than he would with someone who went on and on about how they were gonna be reeeal good friends and all that crap. It was nice to know where you stood, even if where you stood was knee deep in the shit pile about to get your brains fucked out.

"What's your name, kid?"

Neal shrugged, eyes fluttering up to the cop's face. "Does it matter?"

He laughed softly, little smile lines forming around his mouth. "Come on now."

Neal shrugged again. "Yeah, okay. I'm Neal."

It happened so fast that Neal didn't even have time to register it. One second the cop was standing next to him, easy going and friendly, the next he had a hand on Neal's arm, eyes looking him up and down in a not-quite-predatory but still disturbing way. Neal's stomach turned at the realization that he'd misjudged the man, and he tried to pull away. Surprisingly the officer allowed him to do so and Neal took a shaky step back, eyes wide.

"Neal?" The man said, mouth forming a little 'o'. "No-Name Neal?" The words were heavy with disbelief.

Neal's heart sped up at the words and he physically jerked, his eyes growing wide. "What the—how the hell do you know who I am?"

"God, kid, how could I not have recognized you?" the man said weakly, a strange look of sadness coming over him. "A face as pretty as yours doesn't come along every day." His words sounded pained. "Shit, kid, I thought you'd gotten out. You were so smart… So very, very smart. It's been, what, over a decade?"

Neal's eyes widened as he was suddenly flooded with a rush of memories. Standing on a street corner, laughing as a way oversized police hat was dropped on his small head, almost covering his eyes. Smiling widely as he accepted the box of candy and the card saying 'Happy 14th!' Looking gratefully up at the older man as he shoved Neal's attacker down, cuffing his arms tightly behind his back. "O-Officer Daniels?"

The man flashed him a rough smile, eyes still filled with sadness. "That's me, kiddo."

Neal shook his head in disbelief, not sure what to say. "I… I remember you as being older."

"Well, I remember you as being younger, kid. But, hey, I guess when you're sixteen every guy with a beard seems like an old man." He shrugged. "Once you start growing face fuzz, it all slows down."

This was insane. It was truly insane. What were the odds that the cop he'd befriended a lifetime ago would just happen to be working this street corner on this very night? There were millions of people in New York… This was unbelievable. It was like goddamn destiny, though not necessarily in a good way.

"What happened, Neal?" Daniels voice sounded truly pained and he was blinking a little faster than could pass for normal. "How is it, after twelve, thirteen years, a guy as smart as you is still standing here, dressed like that?"

He should take off. That would be the best thing to do. The easy thing to do. His comrades back in the van were hearing every word of this unscheduled reunion, and Officer Daniels was part of a life that Neal had firmly put behind him. Not to mention that researching the officer would be a perfect starting point for Peter to dig up everything about Neal that Neal didn't him to know. He should just run back to the van and say his cover had been blown. They could try again another time.

Except… except a little girl had died last night. Neal's eyes scanned the dimly lit sidewalk and he swallowed hard at the sight of a hollow cheeked little girl, not a day over thirteen, yanking at her thigh high stockings. Was his ego really worth more than some little girl's life?

Neal steeled himself, unconsciously balling up his fists. If Peter really knew as little about Neal's past as he claimed, the man was about to get a crash course. And if Peter didn't want to be around Neal after he found out, well, Neal would just have to learn to deal with that. He wouldn't be the first one to run out on Neal after finding out who he really was. Or the second. Or the tenth.

"Well, I did get out for awhile," Neal said softly, feeling guilty at the look of deep sadness in Officer Daniels' eyes. "Then I… made some mistakes, you know?" The biggest being underestimating Peter Burke, the man he now wanted so badly to impress. Another dream of Neal's down the drain. Peter was about to find out just how unimpressive Neal really was. "Got sent to lockup. Did four years and, well…" He gave a graceful shrug, flashing a half-hearted smile at Officer Daniels. "Now I'm back again."

"Shit, Neal," Daniels muttered, looking so distressed that it made Neal want to wrap his arms around the older man, hug him tight, and tell him the truth, case be damned. "You can do so much better than this. I know you can. Knew it from the day I first met you." He laughed. "You were messing with those thugs' heads, looking all confused when they yelled at you to 'kneel.'" He raised his voice, making a ridiculous face. "Kneel, fucker! I said kneel!"

Neal couldn't help but laugh as well. "And I just kept asking why they were screaming my name."

Daniels grinned. "And then they were all confused, saying how they thought your name was No-Name, and you looked at them like they were dirt beneath your feet and said 'How the hell can I be named No-Name? That's not a name. It's NO name. My name is Neal.'" The officer shook his head, grinning. "What a bunch of morons."

Neal chuckled. "Hey, it stalled the fuckers long enough for you to show up, anyway. And it got me a pretty good street name. I was really kind of tired of people calling me 'the kid with no name.'"

"Well, you never told anybody any different," Daniels said, sounding amused. "You'd just give 'em your mysterious smile or whatever."

"You know what they say—names are power."

"I have no idea what that means," Daniels said with a laugh.

Neal raised an eyebrow. "You know what? I don't either. Classical literature is amazingly non-sensical."

Daniels snorted. "I see you still talk smart." He chuckled. "And you're still going by Neal then, huh?"

Neal shrugged, once again too aware that his Bureau buddies were listening in. "It's a good name. People seem to like it. And not just when they want me on my knees."

Daniels smiled again. "I like it." He paused then, smile fading from his face as he glanced around like someone might be lurking in the shadows. He stepped closer to Neal, until their chests were almost touching, then tilted Neal's chin up, voice quiet. "Hey, I wanted to let you know… I think someone's watching you. There was this guy in a suit hanging around in the bar for, like, *hours*, but his eyes definitely weren't on his drink. I did my rounds three times and he was still in there, staring at you like you were cotton candy on a stick."

Neal choked down his amusement at the thought of the face Peter was making back in the van. Cotton candy on a stick, huh? He must have really had his eyes on Neal. Too bad it was just for the job.

"No, it's okay, he's cool. Actually he's, um…" Neal paused, trying to come up with a good excuse for why some man in a decent, if somewhat plain, suit had been stalking him for hours. "Actually, he's my… my…" A wicked idea grew in his mind. He really shouldn't do it. It would drive Peter nuts. He really, really shouldn't. Aw, screw it. He deserved to have a little fun.

"He's my sugar daddy."

o o o

"Dammit!" Peter cursed as their camera showed Neal stuffing his earbud into those obscenely tight pants with their obscenely prolific holes that framed Neal's obscenely nice ass. "I cannot believe he just did that."

"Relax, Boss," Jones said through a bite of hamburger, catching a pickle that had wormed its way free of the mess of grease and mustard. "It's just some nobody cop from NYPD. Neal can handle it. It's not like the guy's gonna hurt him."

"Are you sure about that?" Peter snapped back, perfectly happy to take his annoyance with Neal out on Jones. Jones should really be the one out there. Jones could damn well take care of himself. Not that Neal couldn't, of course. But somehow the idea of Jones out there in his sparkly top didn't bother nearly as much as the thought of Neal slinking around, hair glittering in the streetlight for every pervert in Manhattan to see.

"Peter, he's a *cop.*"

Yeah, and Neal was out there all alone dressed like a ten cent hooker which, for all that cop knew, was all Neal was worth. He didn't know how brilliant Neal was, or how important he was to Peter. For all he knew, this was just some sad kid selling his ass for small bucks. He wouldn't be the first small time cop to hassle kids in this kind of situation to make themselves feel more like men.

Peter was liking this job less and less every second. Neal should not be out there, should not be dressed like that for any sick bastard that came along to look at. He was better than this.

"Hey, kid." The cop's voice came fuzzily over the system and Peter pressed the headphone harder to his ear, waiting maybe a little too eagerly for any hint of provocation. He was pretty sure he could get from the van to Neal's corner in thirteen seconds if he ran full out.

The cop on the screen came to a halt beside Neal, leaning up against the brick with one hand, his body sort of billowing around Neal, who was leaning with his back against the brick. Peter didn't like it. He didn't like it all.

"Hello, officer." Neal had said he was okay, but he didn't sound okay, and he looked about twelve years old on the screen, pointedly avoiding the cop's gaze and trying his best to make himself look as small as he could. A common trick of abuse victims everywhere. Make yourself as tiny and unthreatening as possible and maybe they'll leave you alone. Peter wondered idly where Neal had learned to do that. Prison, maybe? It was so different from the impertinent know-it-all Peter spent his days with that he almost couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"You're new around here."

"State the obvious much," Peter muttered, moving his headphones from one ear to the other. "God, do they keep some sort of list? One new guy on the street and they practically throw him a party?"

Neal shifted from foot to foot on the screen, his voice sounding a little breathy through the speaker. "I, uh, don't usually work this neighborhood."

"Relax, kid, I'm not going to bite," the police officer replied.

"You sure as hell better not," Peter muttered, earning himself a strange look from Jones and a chuckle from Diana.

"I'm not here to sample the product, okay? Just wanted to meet the new guy." Peter's lip turned up in disgust. The *product*? Had that asshole really just referred to Neal as 'the product'? As much as the words irked Peter, Neal didn't seem to mind. In fact, he actually relaxed.

"He's pretty good at this," Jones remarked as he stuffed a fry in his mouth. "I sure as hell wouldn't guess that was a guy who wears Italian leather." He laughed. "Hell, I wouldn't guess that was a guy who knew how to spell his own name."

"Jones," Peter said, voice very low. "I suggest you shut the hell up and be grateful that you're not the one standing out there, okay? Because if you were, I might very well pay those gang bangers who drove by earlier to jump your ass."

"What's your name, kid?" the officer asked, glancing over at the man.

Neal gave a little shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Come on now."

Neal shrugged again. "Yeah, okay. I'm Neal."

The cop practically sprang away from the wall he'd been leaning on and Peter matched him, jumping out of his seat, ready to run pound the bastard's face off, badge or no badge, if he touched Neal.

"Neal? No-Name Neal?"

No-Name Neal? Peter's brow furrowed. What the hell was this guy talking about?

"Shit," Diana breathed, eyes widening. "I think Neal's been made."

Made? How could Neal have been made? He'd been chased by a lot of agencies, but nothing as small time as an NYPD beat cop. And *Peter* had hardly recognized him when he'd shown up at the cafe. There was no way you could connect the face Neal was wearing tonight with any most wanted posters.

"What the—how the hell do you know who I am?" Neal sounded a little panicked which, more than anything, told him how off his game this evening was putting him. Neal was always calm and in control.

"God, kid, how could I not have recognized you? A face as pretty as yours doesn't come along every day."

What the hell did that mean? Peter leaned over the monitor to get a better look at the two men. Neal was obviously as uncomfortable as hell, nervously running his hands up and down his arms like he was cold, despite the fact that it was a humid summer night.

"Shit, kid, I thought you'd gotten out. You were so smart… So very, very smart. It's been, what, over a decade?"

"Wait, what?" Jones tossed his McDonald's bag into the trash and leaned forward as well, studying the screen. "A decade? This guy knows Caffrey from way back when?" He sounded a excited. Peter shot him a glare and he shrugged, smirking. "Oh, come on. Tell me that you aren't dying to know about the young Mr. Caffrey."

Yeah, okay, Peter would love to know a little more about Neal's "missing years," as he called them. But in the middle of the street during an undercover op was *not* the time. Not only was it dangerous, well, it wasn't really fair to Neal. When Neal wanted to share his past, he would. Until then it was none of their business.

Even if not knowing drove Peter crazy sometimes.

"O-Officer Daniels?"

"Well, apparently he knows the guy," Diana said. Her voice was carefully bland, but there was a soft sadness in her eyes that Peter didn't quite understand. What did she get that he didn't?

"That's me."

"I… I remember you as being older." Neal's voice sounded so young and shaky. It was just so very unlike Neal.

"Well, I remember you as being younger, kid. But, hey, I guess when you're sixteen every guy with a beard seems like an old man. Once you start growing face fuzz, it all slows down."

How the hell would some red light district traffic cop remember Neal? Had he used to work for another department? If so, what did he mean by thinking Neal would get out? A terrible suspicion was beginning to grow in his mind, but Peter filed it away as nonsense as he continued to watch the screens. There was no way. No way at all. Not smart, smooth, capable Neal Caffrey. He was thinking crazy thoughts.

"What happened, Neal?" From what Peter could see of his face, the cop looked genuinely upset. "How is it, after twelve, thirteen years, a guy as smart as you is still standing on a street corner?"

"*Still* standing on a street corner?" Jones said, eyes going wide. "Wait, is this guy implying that Neal-fucking-Caffrey, criminal extraordinaire, used to sell his ass on the street?"

This time Diana beat Peter to the punch, turning her sharp gaze on Jones. Which was lucky because Peter had been about to give him an actual punch. "Whatever he did or didn't do, it's none of our business. We shouldn't even be hearing this. We have no right. I don't want to listen to this." She threw her earphones down in disgust, shaking her head. Peter was tempted to do the same, but he couldn't leave Neal hanging. Too many things could go wrong.

"I don't want to leave Neal with no backup," Peter said briskly, picking up Diana's headset and holding it out to her. He shot a warning look at Jones. "Let's do a little more listening and a lot less talking."

Jones held up his hands. "Hey, I was just surprised, okay? Hell, I bet it isn't even what it sounds like. Neal probably had this guy as conned as he had everybody else."

Peter nodded in agreement, the thought making his churning stomach feel a little better. Jones was right, of course. He already knew Neal had hustled pool when he was a kid. He'd probably been running a con or something.

"Ah, well, I did get out for awhile," Neal replied, his voice tinny over the speakers. "Then I… made some mistakes. Got sent to lockup. Did four years and, well, now I'm back again."

"Shit, Neal, you could do so much better than this. You can do so much better than this. I know you can. Knew it from the day I first met you." He laughed, reaching out to pat Neal's shoulder. "You were messing with those thugs' heads, looking all confused when they yelled at you to kneel." He made a face. "Kneel, fucker! I said kneel!"

When they yelled at him to kneel? What?

Neal laughed as well, grinning at the other man. "And I just kept asking them why they were screaming my name."

"Screaming his name?" Jones said, looking confused.

"Kneel," Diana said. "They were yelling at him to kneel. You know, with a 'k.' He was pretending he didn't understand, that he thought they were yelling his name. Not a bad strategy to buy yourself some time. Clever anyway. Stall, stall, stall, that's the rule." When the two men looked at her in surprise she shrugged. "You'd be amazed the things they teach the kids of diplomats."

Peter could just make out the cop's grin on the screen. "And then they were all confused, saying how they thought your name was No-Name, and you looked at them like they were dirt beneath your feet and said 'How the hell can I be named No-Name? That's not a name. It's NO name. My name is Neal.'" The officer shook his head, grinning. "What a bunch of morons."

Neal laughed as well, sagging against the wall. "Hey, it stalled the fuckers long enough for you to show up, anyway. And it got me a pretty good street name. I was really kind of tired of people calling me 'the kid with no name.'"

"Well, you never told anybody any different," the cop said, smirking. "You'd just give 'em your mysterious smile or whatever."

"You know what they say—names are power."

"I have no idea what that means," the cop replied, causing Neal to smile again.

"You know what? I don't either. Classical literature is amazingly non-sensical."

"I see you still talk smart. And you're still going by Neal then, huh?"

Neal shrugged and Peter saw him touch a hand lightly to the band on his wrist. He hadn't forgotten they were listening. "It's a good name. People seem to like it. And not just when they want me on my knees."

"I like it," the man agreed. Peter scowled. He liked it, huh? Well, that damn well better be all the bastard liked about Neal.

Out of nowhere the officer grabbed Neal's waist, tugging them close together. Peter was on his feet in an instant, Diana grabbing his arm to keep him from jumping out of the van.

"Relax, Peter," she said quietly. "Let Neal handle this. This man, he's on Neal's side."

Peter took a deep breath. She was right, of course. But he still didn't like the way the asshole was tipping Neal's chin up like he was about to kiss him.

When the cop's voice came over the speaker, it was almost inaudible, obviously a whisper. "Hey, I wanted to let you know… I think someone's watching you. There was this guy in a suit hanging around in the bar for, like, *hours*, but his eyes definitely weren't on his drink. I did my rounds three times and he was still in there, staring at you like you were cotton candy on a stick."

Peter choked slightly, face turning red. Cotton candy on a stick? Was this guy kidding? He kind of wanted to melt into the ground at the implications behind the words, but he didn't have time to be embarrassed by now. They'd been made, officially. God, he was so stupid. Of course they'd noticed some guy in a suit sitting in a filthy bar for four hours. Peter shook his head, disgusted with himself. He had blown it. They needed to shut down this op as fast as possible, before Melbane showed up and got suspicious. They could try again next week—and Peter would damn well make sure that this 'Officer Daniels' clown had a different route by then.

"Okay, let's pack it up—"

"Wait, Boss," Diana said, gesturing toward the monitor. "I think Caffrey's got it covered."

Peter picked his headset back up, holding it to his ear.

"No, it's okay, he's cool. Actually he's, um…" Neal paused, a calculating look in his eyes. "Actually, he's my… my…"

"Come on, Neal," Peter encouraged quietly, staring at the slim figure on the screen. "Find a way to save it. We gotta stop these guys…"

A smirk came over Neal's face and Peter relaxed. He'd figured it out. If anyone could, it was Neal Caffrey.

"He's my sugar daddy."

Peter choked again, so hard that Diana felt a need to pound him on the back. Jones was too busy laughing his ass off to be any help.

"I'm his *what?*"

"You heard him," Jones said, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "_Late night sex so wet and tight, I'll gas the jet up for you tonight and you can go wherever you like. You can have whatever you like_."

Peter stared at him. "What the hell?"

"It's a song," Diana said dryly. "About sugar daddies. Trust me, you don't want to hear any more than that. Those are the polite lines."

Peter shook his head—Jones would totally be paying for this in paperwork for the next six months or so—and turned his attention back to Neal, his cheeks burning. Damn that man and his endless cons.

"Yeah, it was crazy. Before I went to the pen, he was chasin' me all over. Like a stalker. But Bitch never let him have any, if you know what I mean."

"Hearing Caffrey refer to himself in the third person as 'Bitch'. Wow. This night is getting more and more disturbing by the second." Jones steepled his fingers under his chin, obviously very entertained.

"So just when he finally catches up with me, they throw me in the pen. But they never could prove I did half that shit, so I'm out in four years and, guess what? Big boy's all over me." He sighed dramatically. "Thinks seven hundred bucks a month means he can keep me on a fucking leash. But how the hell am I supposed to live off seven hun a month? So here I am." He gestured around him. "I see him following me all the time. He's fucking obsessed." Neal's lips twitched in amusement. "Even his wife once told me that he had a whole goddamn room in their house dedicated just to me."

"Dammit, Neal," Peter muttered. "Don't you dare bring El into this."

Jones snickered. "Well, he ain't telling lies. Your whole study *was* covered in stuff from his file. You were obsessed."

Peter glared at him. "I was not obsessed." He looked at Diana. "Right?"

She snorted. "You're still obsessed."

"His wife?" The policeman sounded shocked, rightfully so. Peter would be shocked, too. Hell, he was *still* shocked at how well El had actually taken his little fascination.

Neal shrugged. "She's a very open minded lady. Their dog's a keeper, too. The man's infatuated, but he's pretty much harmless."

"Not so harmless when I smack the shit out of him." Peter scowled, trying hard not to imagine just what being Neal's 'sugar daddy' would be like. Not that he could have afforded to be Neal's sugar daddy—if he'd wanted to keep men who wore ten thousand dollar suits he should have gone into white collar accounting, not crimes—but the idea, as horrifyingly embarrassing as it was, was also a little bit hot. Okay, a lot hot.

"He treat you okay?" The cop asked, real worry in his voice.

Neal hesitated long enough to make Peter feel uncomfortable, watching intensely as the man's beautiful mouth opened and shut again, brow furrowing slightly.

Why wasn't he talking? Peter treated Neal good, right? Hell, Neal would still be in prison if it weren't for him. You couldn't get much better treatment than that, right? God, why was he even thinking this shit? Neal was playing a part. A part in which Peter was his *sugar daddy*, for God's sake. This had nothing to do with how he treated Neal day to day. Did it?

Finally Neal answered. "Yeah, he treats me good. As good as I've ever known. Better than any man has ever treated me." He let out a laugh, though it didn't sound particularly happy. "Unfortunately, he's the kind you really have to work to please, y'know? He'll test you over and over again and, well," Neal gestured vaguely to himself, "I'm not exactly fresh goods so I don't always pass." He shrugged. "He's a rough guy, always telling you to 'cowboy up' when it hurts, but he's there for you when you need him."

Peter felt a lump rise in his throat. Not exactly the resounding 'hell yeah, he's awesome!' that he would have liked but it was very… honest.

"You shouldn't let anybody hurt you, kid," the cop said, and the words made Peter grit his teeth. Who did this guy think he was? He did *not* hurt Neal!

"Relax, Boss," Diana murmured, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's an undercover op, not the Tale of Peter and Neal. It's not about you."

Damn women and their supernatural ability to analyze emotional stress.

"That's not what I meant," Neal protested, making Peter feel a little better. "He doesn't hurt me on purpose." Neal shrugged. "Which, like I said, is more than any other man has ever done."

Peter reminded himself once again that this was just Neal running a con. The haunted look in those big blue eyes, the hunching slump of his shoulders, the pained half-smile—it was only a scam.

"Okay, kid," the cop said, sounding like he believed Neal about a much as he believed in the tooth fairy. "But don't let your low expectations keep you from what you deserve. If, like you say, this man is a good guy and doesn't hurt you on purpose, then you should tell him when he hurts you on accident so that it won't happen again. It's not your job to spend your life taking hits to the face… Or hits to anyplace else. I don't care if your ass goes for ten bucks or ten thousand bucks, you're a human being. You still have the right to say what's going to happen to *you.* You have the right to say 'no.'"

Neal laughed, one of his know-it-all, better-than-you chuckles. "You'd be surprised, Officer. They don't have to keep you tied to the bed to hold you down, and their dick doesn't have to be up your ass for them to fuck you over. And as for having the right to say no… Let's just say that I don't have that luxury. I owe this man, more than I could ever explain, and if he told me to bend over in the middle of the street I'd have to do it or risk fucking up my life for good. Not that he would," Neal added quickly, almost as an after thought. Maybe he'd remembered that Peter could hear every word of this little conversation. "Like I said, he's not that kind of guy. But just knowing that somebody else owns you… It nags at you. I've known too many men who would go to town if they had the chance." Neal laughed and made a comically sexual movement with his hips. "But, hey, I guess I'm safe as long as he's got a use for the goods."

Just when Peter thought his face couldn't get any redder.

"Okay, kid, whatever you say." The cop paused, checking his watch. "I gotta finish my walk. It was good to see you." The cop dug into his pocket, coming up with a handful of condoms that he held out to Neal. "Be safe, okay? And, it's just my opinion," he held up his hands as if to stave off protest, "but I suggest you get the hell away from that guy. Don't let anyone trick you into thinking you belong to them, okay? You're your own person and you have the right to set your own rules."

Jones snorted. "He wishes."

"Shut up, Jones," Peter muttered, his face still flaming. He was ready for this little heart to heart to be over.

"He's really not a bad guy, Officer," Neal said quietly, staring off at nothing.

The cop looked doubtful. "Somehow that man's got you thinking that you can't say no to him. Just because he's being nice now doesn't mean you should take the risk. If he knows that you believe he has the right to do whatever he wants with you, well, there's nothing to keep him from deciding to take advantage of that someday. You're a person, kid. All the tight jeans and glittery makeup in the world can't change that. If this guy's letting you believe that you're his to do whatever he wants with, well, then he doesn't think of you as a person. And guys like that, boyo, are nothing but trouble."

Neal made a soft noise that could have been a laugh. Or something a lot less happy. His head was angled away from the camera, hidden by the shadows.

"I'll keep that in mind, Officer. It was good to talk to you."

"You too, Neal." A kind smile crossed the man's face. "Hope I never see your pretty mug out here again, kid."

Neal gave him a smile in return. "Me too, Officer. Me, too." 


	7. Chapter 7: Kneel by the Fire

_See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)

**Author's Notes: **FYI, I wrote an "extra" for this universe, a fic where Jones goes undercover as the prostitute instead of Neal, and what comes of it. If you'd like to check it out it's called _'Asking Why'_ and it's under this same author name. :)

o o o

**Chapter 7: Kneel by the Fire**

Before the whole Nick Halden gig, Neal had told Mozzie he wasn't sure he was a suit guy. Apparently that statement was coming back to haunt him, because he would have done anything for a tie to fiddle with right now. Playing with the gaudy fake chain around his neck just didn't offer the same relief as straightening your tie four hundred times in an hour. They were like stress balls you could wear around your neck.

Speaking of suits, what the hell had gotten into him tonight, spilling his guts with a goddamn FBI wire wrapped around his wrist? He couldn't even imagine was Peter was thinking. No, he could imagine—he'd heard people shout the words at him often enough to guess what might be crossing the agent's mind—he just didn't *want* to imagine it.

Seeing Officer Daniels after so long had been like a slap to the face. It was as if he'd been transported back in time fourteen years and was sixteen again, fresh off a Greyhound and selling the only possession he had besides his non-vital organs and Type O blood.

It was painful, giving yourself away to man after man. It was like being a rental car. Customers used you as they pleased and every time you were returned you had a few more scuffs on your doors, a little less tread on your tires, and a few more miles on your odometer until eventually you were a piece of junk.

Most of all, tricking took something that had once been yours to do with as you pleased and made you feel as if you no longer had any power over it, a characteristic that was unfortunately shared by his situation with the Feds. His situation with Peter.

Whether he'd been whoring or heisting, he'd had a choice to make, his choice entirely, but once it had been made, there was no turning back. Like the perverted, middle age suburbanite whose minivan he'd entered of his own free will, the system could now do whatever it wanted with Neal Caffrey. Once you'd taken the cash, 'no, please, stop, don't' were nothing but empty words, and once you'd committed the crime, there was no escaping the molesting hands of Lady Justice.

Neal probably couldn't have asked for a better handler than Peter. Not every agent would have allowed him to stay in a multi-million dollar townhouse after they'd plunked him down in a shit hole and not every agent would put up with his attitude and laissez faire way of getting things done. Occasionally, though, the disparity between them when it came to power still made him feel helpless and off balance.

He knew that Peter didn't have a clue, and he didn't want Peter to have a clue. He liked Peter. Maybe even more than liked Peter. Kind of like a father figure and a man-crush rolled up in one, as weird as that sounded. Neal never wanted the agent to find out that, every once and awhile, his mind would flash back to the times he'd been held down by a man he didn't even know and replace that face with Peter's. He didn't do it on purpose, and all it really meant was that one of these days he should really see a therapist, but he knew it would hurt Peter to know.

Of course, for someone who had spent a considerable amount of time making sure Peter never caught a glimpse of his more vulnerable side, Neal sure had done a good job spewing out every insecurity he had with a damn mic strapped to his wrist.

What was wrong with him? Was he insane? How was he supposed to explain himself? Neal had pretty much said, flat out, that he was afraid of Peter, which so wasn't true. Not really. Not since he'd come to know the guy beyond the nebulous idea of the 'Special Agent Peter Burke' that had practically stalked him for three years.

Neal knew that Peter cared about him and his well being just as much as he did Diana or Clinton. Maybe even more. After all, he'd never risked going to prison for them like he had when he helped Neal take off with the Raphael. Peter was on his side. Any other feelings Neal had about his situation were no fault of Peter's. They stemmed much, much deeper, built upon years of selling his body and having his innocence stolen by a man who was supposed to be his dad. Neal would have had the same feeling of unease and suspicion about any man who had the kind of power over him that Peter did, but somehow he knew Peter wouldn't be able to comprehend the subtleties of it all. No, Peter would take it personally, and Neal didn't want that.

This case was tipping Neal over the edge, his mind trying to mold his life now into something that it wasn't based on stupid old memories. He was going crazy. One second he'd been doing fine, and the next thing he knew he'd been making unsubtle remarks about Peter on a street corner with the Harvard crew straining their ears to hear. Peter thought of Neal as a friend, had said so himself, and Neal had basically told a total stranger that he didn't trust the man as far as he could throw him. What a way to repay him, huh?

Maybe this would actually be the breaking point. He couldn't imagine Peter being thrilled that Neal had been recorded telling a random cop that Peter fucked him over and tied him down. Not exactly a resounding review there from his CI. Maybe bad-mouthing Peter on a tape that would go on the record forever would be enough to raise the wall between them that they'd been so carefully chipping away at for the last three years.

Neal took a deep, steadying breath. This was ridiculous. He and Peter would work it out. They always did. This certainly wasn't the fist time they'd had some interesting revelations about one another. He needed to focus on the job, get it done, and go back to his normal life far, far from the street corner. This place was putting Neal off his game and he needed to focus.

A man wearing a Yankees cap sort of sauntered by and Neal pushed his hips forward automatically.

"Hey, baby." The words rolled easily off his tongue, requiring next to no thought. He'd spent more of his life working street corners than he had con jobs, after all. "You want some of this? Because I'd love some of you. And by that, I mean some of you up inside me." Shit, he hadn't actually meant to say that last part out loud.

The man shot him a disgusted look which was just fine because Neal was feeling pretty disgusted by himself right now, too. Seriously, this job was going to give Clinton *so* much ammunition to use against him. How the hell was he supposed to save face after this?

Neal sighed, running a hand through his glittery hair as he glanced around. Where the fuck was Melbane? He was really sick of this crap. He should never have agreed to do it. But there was the little girl. Neal couldn't forget about the girl. She'd died because some bastards wanted to make a few bucks. All this emotional wreckage would be worth it if they could put those scum bags behind bars.

"Neal, we've got our eyes on him. Silver Beemer. ETA, two minutes."

Thank God. With the way things had been going tonight, Neal had been half-afraid he'd run into his goddamn step-dad on vacation up from Albuquerque. Or maybe the pastor he'd had sex with in a confessional booth. Hell, with his luck Vincent Adler might have chosen tonight to cruise his Porsche down the red light district, waving his new identity around and offering stock shares for blow jobs.

"Okay, guys," Neal said as he watched a silver car turn the corner. "I'm ditching the earbud in the trash by the lounge. I don't know how cozy Melbane is going to want to get and the last thing we need is for him to wonder if that's a wire in my pocket or if my jeans are just happy to see him."

"Affirmative. Be careful, Neal," Peter replied as Neal fished the piece out of his ear and tossed it in the can to his right.

"I'm going in."

o o o

"You think he can really pull this off?" Jones questioned, one eyebrow raised.

"He's been doing pretty good so far," Diane replied, stretching her arms over her head, making her shoulder pop. "It's a damn good act. I'd believe it."

Jones made a noise of agreement. "You know, I've been thinking… Maybe it really isn't an act. I mean, we all heard him with the cop."

"I think it's more likely that he ran a con a long time ago and doesn't want us sniffing out the trail, even if it is a decade old," Diana said. Her voice was casual, but there was warning in her eyes as she studied Jones.

"Yeah," Jones said, shrugging, apparently missing Diana's subtle death stare completely. "You're probably right. That's Caffrey, always messing with our heads."

"Okay, here he comes," Peter said, voice low as the BMW pulled up to the street just a few yards away from the street sign where Neal was now lounging.

The car sat there idling for a few minutes, and Diana frowned. "He's probably looking around for his regular."

"Think he's suspicious?" Jones asked, looking a little worried.

"He's always suspicious," Peter replied shortly. "That's what makes him a paranoid freak. But Neal will reel him in. Neal can reel anybody in." That was he truth. He'd done a damn good job with Peter, after all.

As if one cue, Neal moseyed away from the street sign, tugging down his already shockingly low jeans enough that you could see the crack of his butt. He made a slow but deliberate path to the car and, if Peter hadn't known for a fact it was Neal, he never would have guessed this was anything but a cheap whore trying to pick up the john in the pricey car.

Neal stood by car car for a moment then bent down as if to pick something up, pointedly sticking his ass out as he did so.

Apparently this was enough of a display for Melbane to roll down the passenger side window, because they heard Neal croon, "Hey, baby. Looking for love, my man? 'Cause I got plenty to spare."

"Not from you," Melbane replied. "Where's Carson?" The words were clipped and harsh.

Peter took a steadying breath. The man was getting nervous….

"Come on, Neal, pull him in…"

"Huh? Oh, you mean that kid who was working here last night? He had a little problem, baby. Let's just say that the itching will go away in eight to twelve days."

Jones snorted, shaking his head in disbelief.

There was nothing but silence over the wire for a moment, then Neal spoke again. "So how about it, daddy? I may not be what you were looking for, but I bet I'm what you dream about."

Peter choked a little, then did his best to cover it up with a cough.

"How much?" Melbane's voice was snide. "And don't high sight with me, boy."

"Oh for God's sake," Diana said, rolling her eyes. "He's a multi-millionaire and he haggles with street kids over the price of a trick?"

Neal responded with a slow, "hmmmmm…"

Peter hadn't realized that a simple 'hm' could sound that erotic.

"What side of the coin you looking for, lover? I'll do head for twenty, but if it lands on tails, well, that's gonna be a full fifty."

"Geeze," Jones muttered. "Twenty bucks for oral, fifty for sex? Talk about low-balling. I hope Neal knows what he's doing. Considering Melbane's paranoia, we don't wanna make him nervous."

"Please," came Melbane's sneering voice. "Fifty? Why do you think you are, sparkle boy, a rising porn star? I'm looking for the whole coin and I won't give you more than thirty."

Diana raised an eyebrow as Jones huffed with disbelief. "Apparently Neal wasn't low-balling."

Jones made a face. "God, that's what these guys pay their hookers? That's just sad."

"It's all sad," Diana said, her voice unusually soft.

Neal leaned against the car, his upper body disappearing through the window. "Aw, c'mon now… Don't you wanna see these lips wrapped around your big cock, baby? See these big, blue eyes staring up at you while I try so, so hard to choke it all down?"

"Oh, God, I'm gonna puke," Jones said, definitely looking a little ill.

Peter just cleared his throat, trying to exorcise the images flashing through his mind. He was way too old to have any excuse for the manner in which this situation was becoming… uncomfortable.

Melbane made a noise that Peter couldn't even begin to describe, but he knew he didn't like it. Melbane better keep his hands to himself. "All right. Forty."

Neal laughed, the sound tinged with nervousness. "Works for me, baby."

Peter swallowed hard. There was no reason for him to be so damn worried. Neal had taken care of himself perfectly well on many occasions. This was no different. Besides, they'd be around the corner, ready to come in if anything went bad.

"So, where we going, baby?"

"Get in the car and you'll find out," Melbane snapped. "And for God's sake don't get that glitter in your hair on my goddamn seats."

Neal popped open the passenger side door and climbed in, giggling softly, then the soft sound of kissing came over the wire.

"My step daddy used to tell me I had the lips of an angel," Neal practically purred, voice low and sensual. "I can't wait to give you more than kisses. Please, take me somewhere so I can wrap these lips around you."

"Okay, I don't know if I can listen to this," Jones said, lip curled in disgust. "If I wanted to hear Neal Caffrey spout NC-17 dialogue, I'd have visited him in prison."

"Shut up, Clinton," Diana snapped, looking pissed. "That's not even a little bit funny, okay?"

"Just be glad it's not you in that car right now," Peter snapped. "That could have been you, Jones." Not that Jones would even have made it into the car. Peter hadn't wanted to think how far this might need to go to get them in Melbane's house, but he was pretty sure that Jones would have high-tailed it out of there by now. Not that Peter could blame him. He didn't have the guts for this, either.

"I'm really starting to have a lot more respect for female undercover agents," Jones said, making a face.

"As you should," Diana said. "It's okay, gentlemen. I know you're not used to having dinosaurs disguised as well-off men hitting on you all the time but, as attractive as Neal is, I bet he's had to fight them off before. Think of it as a necessary evil if you want to be able to do crazy things like have a drink in a bar by yourself or walk home alone at night."

"Aw, we're not *that* bad—"

Peter held up a hand, silencing them. "Quiet. I want to make sure Melbane's not suspicious." And make damn sure that the bastard didn't make Neal do anything he didn't want to. Even the idea of the man's hands on Neal made Peter's blood pressure rise.

There was another soft moan, followed by a wicked sounding laugh. Peter scowled.

"Okay, okay. God, you are one beautiful slut. We'll go to my place. It's outside the city, but I'll put baby in a cab when we're done."

Neal gave another soft moan then spoke, voice deep and raspy. "Maybe I can stay the night?"

What the hell? Stay the night? Why the fuck was Neal asking to stay the night? No way was he staying the goddamn night. His orders were to get in, plant the bugs, and get the hell out. There would be no staying the damn night *anywhere*. Except maybe in Peter's guest room once and awhile. Or closer than the guest room. Okay, again with the inappropriate thoughts.

"I don't think so, baby," Melbane said, voice a little snide.

There was some more rustling and another of those awful laughs. How had Peter never noticed how *evil* Melbane sounded when he laughed? It was horrific, like a fucking supervillain or something.

"Aw, c'mon, daddy, baby really needs a place to sleep. We can cuddle up and, in the morning, I'll make it very worth your while. Who needs pancakes when you have ass candy like this?"

"Seriously, if I barf, it is not my fault," Jones said with a grimace.

Melbane snorted. "Yeah, we'll see about that. Now shut up and let me drive."

The Beemer pulled out of its curbside spot and Peter waved for their driver to follow, scowling deeply as he did so. What did Neal think he was doing, talking about staying the night? Peter didn't want him staying with this sicko for more than ten minutes.

As if he could hear Peter's thoughts, Neal's voice came very, very softly through the headphones, the mic so close to his mouth that you could hear his breath on it. "Just keepin' our options open. Relax."

Relax. Ha. Cheeky little bastard. He'd relax when Neal was safe in bed. Alone. Or maybe with Peter. Okay, no, not a good place to do. They were on an op. He needed to focus. Dammit, why did Neal have to be so goddamn distracting?

"Hurry up, and make sure you don't lose them. I don't want Neal alone with this pervert for a second longer than necessary."

o o o

"Wow, you really have a lot of alarms," Neal said as casually as he could as he watched Melbane punch a code into the third panel of the night. This house was more of a fortress than they'd known. Forget Ben Gurion airport, this was King Tut's tomb. Hell, Neal wouldn't be surprised if the man had his sofa booby trapped.

"It pays to be safe," Melbane said, his voice clipped. He looked over, raising an eyebrow at Neal, an eerie smile coming over his face as he stared into his eyes. "You never know who might be after you." Neal's breath caught at the words, and he wondered for a split second if their cover was blown after all. No, that wasn't possible. There was no way. Right?

"Why… Is someone after you?" he asked hesitantly, trying to squeeze something out of the amazingly unreadable man.

"Oh yes indeed," Melbane said, eyes narrowing in a way that made Neal want to shiver. There was no way he could know, was there? The plan had gone perfectly so far. But the look on Melbane's face… "You see, I know the truth, the truth that the American government doesn't want us to know. The truth about who really runs this country. And if you think it's the people, you're kidding yourself. Everything we've heard since Desert Storm? Lies! And anyone who sees that goes down. Look at Bernie Madoff. He spoke out against the council, and look where it got him." Melbane chuckled. "But you don't really care about all that, do you, beautiful?"

Neal wished he could feel relieved that Melbane hadn't been referencing the Feds when he said someone was after him, but it was a little hard to feel relieved when in the room with a total psycho. At least Mozzie went at it in a light-hearted way. This guy was just creepy.

"Uh… I dunno really who that is, you know?" Neal replied since there was no way in hell some cheap whore would have a clue what Desert Storm was, much less Bernie Madoff.

The electronic lock on the door clicked and Melbane grabbed Neal by the hair, shoving him through the doorway. "Don't worry about it, baby. They don't care about whores like you. Though *I* say they shouldn't write you off—cockroaches are all that survive a nuclear blast, after all. Now how about you shut up and look pretty for me, hm?"

Neal grimaced, rubbing the back of his head where Melbane had grabbed him, stomach churning a little. This guy obviously wasn't into tender lovemaking. He liked to be in control. "Whatever you want," Neal said, trying to make his voice sound as small as possible. Melbane wanted to feel like the big man? Neal could handle that.

"Now that's what I like to hear." Melbane walked across the small entry area, punching a number in yet *another* keypad. With a beep the door slid open to reveal the living room, *finally.* It was quite spartan, just a few pieces of furniture here and there and almost no decoration, making the space look kind of empty. It wasn't particularly aesthetically pleasing, but if Melbane was buying from the flaming brother, he obviously didn't care about art. The few pieces he did have were obviously expensive, though, and there was a large liquor cabinet filled with top shelf bottles. The man was not creative, Neal decided, but he did like to show off his money. He'd probably have hired an interior decorator if he wasn't a paranoid freakazoid who didn't let anybody but clients into his house.

Well, clients and cheap whores.

Neal ran his hand down his thigh, feeling carefully for the little pocket he'd sewn inside one of the rips to hold the bugs. "Wow, you got some cash, baby. How 'bout we have a drink?" He started to move toward the liquor cabinet, hoping to drop a bug, but Melbane grabbed him by the back of the pants and sort of swung him, actually sending him slamming into a wall. Neal grimaced, rubbing at his shoulder. Obviously this man was *not* worried about breaking his toys.

"I don't think so," Melbane said, sneering at him. "Like I said, how about you shut up and look pretty?" He gestured toward a door off to the side. "Follow me."

Neal obeyed—what else could he do?—following Melbane down a narrow hallway. The living room hadn't been his main target, anyway. What he needed to figure out was a way into the office.

It wasn't going to be an easy task. They'd gone over the blueprints at the Bureau, but they hadn't been much help. The house was only one story because, apparently, having an upper story was a security risk, something about people using arial silks to swing in from trees forty feet away, you know, because Cirque du Soleil spent so much time breaking into houses. It was suspected that Melbane had a vast underground facility, firstly because he had to store his goods somewhere and secondly because he seemed like the type of guy who would want at least five or ten safe rooms in his house, but nothing had been confirmed. They were pretty sure that Melbane did business upstairs, however, and so Neal's job was to find the office and figure out a way to drop the bug in or near it.

The hallway he was following Melbane down only had two doors. The first was closed and locked, a keypad next to the door, but the door was made of shatterproof glass and Neal could see an expansive office area behind it. *That* was where he needed to get. Neal analyzed the lock as they passed it. It was an A-47 Shivner locking mechanism, set up for rotating codes. It was a fairly simple job, all you had to do was overload the system. Neal could do it with a cellphone. Plus there were no security cameras recording it, probably in respect to his clients' privacy. It wasn't exactly the top notch security he'd expected from Joseph Melbane, but he guessed that since the office was the one room he let people into, he didn't feel the need to be too high tech. Hell, even having a keypad for every damn room was way over the top.

The lock on the bedroom door was much more complex, confirming his suspicions that the lower level lock on the office door was sort of like the psycho version of a welcome mat. Neal would need Moz's help to crack the bedroom lock but, luckily, he didn't need to break into the bedroom. Melbane was going to lead him right in. The question now, though, was how did he get into the office? It was obvious already that this guy wasn't just going to let him wander off. And how far was he willing to go with this charade to buy himself the chance?

All he could really think of was to either convince Melbane to let him sleep over so he could slip away in the dark or beg to be fucked in the office for some kinky roleplay thing. Somehow he didn't think Peter would approve of either plan, but the guy was too damn aggressive for Neal to even try and con him into leaving Neal alone for even a minute, much less the time he'd need to overcome the lock.

The door to the bedroom beeped and Melbane raised an eyebrow at Neal, a leering sort of smile spreading across his face. Neal gave a nervous chuckle, because any sane person would be nervous about being in a house built like a fucking prison on steroids, and tried his best to smile back. "You really got a *lot* of locks. You're not planning to try and keep me here, are you?"

Melbane sniffed in an irritatingly superior way. "Trust me, I have better things to do than trap cheap whores."

"Uh, you didn't actually answer my question, man…"

"No," Melbane said, sounding exasperated. "No, I am not going to try and keep some cheap piece of ass trapped in my house. In fact, I will be perfectly happy when you are out of my house. As long as you make me happy, that is." He grabbed Neal again, by the arm this time, and shoved him roughly into the bedroom, sending him tumbling to his knees. The guy was more tall than he was big, but he was definitely strong, stronger than they'd expected. Stronger than Neal.

Considering how much Melbane liked to throw him around, that was a less than comforting thought.

Neal took a deep breath, studying the red and orange patterns in the Oriental rug beneath him as he tried to clear his head. He could handle this. Is wasn't as if being roughed up was uncommon for a dime store whore. He'd done this before. You just had to go with the flow. Besides, the man's shove had landed him on the floor right next to a bookshelf. There as a large vase full of some kind of brightly colored lily, and Neal took the opportunity to slip a bug in it as he used the shelf to help him climb to his feet. It wasn't exactly the office but at least this way if he needed to bail then the operation wouldn't be a total bust.

"Okay, baby," Neal said, collecting himself. "I see how it is." He flashed the man a wicked grin, hooking his thumbs on the edge of his jeans and tugging them down until they were about a centimeter from flashing his dick. "In that case, maybe I should get started."

He moved toward the man, wrapping his arms around his neck. Melbane was tall, tall enough that Neal had to lift himself up on his toes to put them at eye level. Tall and strong. Better than short and fat, he supposed, though in this situation that might actually be better. "Mmmm…" He leaned forward, kissing Melbane deeply, his tongue massaging the other man's. Melbane's hand squeezed roughly at Neal's buttock, kneading it with his fingers, the man giving a chuckle as they pulled apart.

"You say you've got the lips of an angel. Why don't you show me, boy?"

The time had come for Neal to made a decision whether to follow Peter's orders or do what he had to in order to get the job done. Except he'd already made the decision, hadn't he? He'd known all along that a fucker like Melbane wouldn't let him wander around then take off. It had been a ridiculous plan to begin with, built on desperation and Peter's naivete when it came to boys that men paid small bucks to fuck. It wasn't like a fucking escort service. This was a down and dirty business. It might have worked with a less paranoid man, but not with one like Melbane. Still, if nothing else, Neal could try and stall.

"Aw, why you wanna move so quick?" he questioned, leaning close enough that his breath danced across Melbane's neck. "Don't you want to enjoy it? Make it last?"

Neal choked as Melbane's hand suddenly wrapped around his neck, squeezing tightly as he used the other hand to lift Neal's chin. "Why?" he said, suspicion flashing in his eyes. "Is there some reason you don't want to… get down to business?"

Oh great. Melbane probably suspected he was with the people who took down Bernie Madoff or something. Fucking paranoia. Mozzie was the same damn way. Every little thing was a threat.

"Of course not," Neal choked out best he could with a hand squeezing at his throat. "I'm sorry. I just thought you'd want a lot for your money. But you can have whatever you want. Just tell me what you want, and I'll beg you for the chance to do it, I swear."

Melbane stared at him for a long moment, eyeing him coldly, then gave a short nod, releasing Neal's throat. "First," he said, voice low, "how about we get that shirt off of you. I want to see that sculpted chest of yours."

Neal nodded, obediently tugging his shirt over his head. Melbane's fingers scraped down his chest, pausing to dig at his nipples, and Neal let out a soft gasp.

"You really are beautiful, slut," Melbane muttered, apparently always full of sweet nothings. His lips pressed against Neal's and he obediently opened his mouth, allowing Melbane to run his teeth along Neal's lip. The pressure intensified, teeth clamping down harder and harder until Neal gave a small whimper.

Melbane pulled away then with a laugh as Neal sucked on his lip, grimacing as he tasted blood.

"Okay, Angel Lips, how about you give me some kisses where it counts?" Melbane's hand caught Neal's hair again, yanking it painfully as his other hand forced Neal's zipper down, wrapping tightly around his cock.

Neal swallowed hard as Melbane caressed him. Here it was, the line to be crossed. Peter was going to be disgusted with him, that much he was sure of. But he couldn't just let Melbane go. This man had helped desecrate hundreds of priceless works of art and, more importantly, had a hand in the death of some poor little girl who just wanted to be with her daddy when his show opened at the gallery.

Neal could handle this. It wasn't like he was some virgin to be spoiled. He would be fine. Anything to make things right. And if he could never stand to look Peter in the eye again… Well, he'd just have to deal with it.

It was frightening how sick the thought made him feel.

"Okay," Neal murmured, trying to keep his mind as clear as possible. It was difficult, considering that Melbane was still slowly pumping his cock. "O-okay." He reached out, pushing Melbane's hand off his dick. "Sounds good to me, baby." He kept his eyes trained on Melbane as he dropped down to his knees. There seemed to be a general consensus there was actually a way to kneel gracefully, like an angel floating down from the heavens or some shit, but Neal had never found this to be true in practice. Maybe it was just him, but it always felt awkward. Especially when your face was less than an inch from the very distinctive bulge of a man's hard cock, nothing but a thin layer of cloth between you and it.

Neal licked his lips nervously, trying his best not to think about what he was about to do. After a moment, when Melbane didn't offer any assistance, Neal reached up and fumbled with the button on his trousers, undoing it and lowering the zipper. He tugged, taking the man's pants and underwear down at the same time, and found himself face to face with his new make out partner.

God, it had been so long since he'd done this. Neal really hoped he'd be able to turn on the autopilot, but it had been long enough that he doubted he could manage it. His last time had been with one of the guards at the prison, right before Peter had shown up to hear out Neal's offer. In the same fucking room, actually. If Peter had arrived ten minutes earlier, he would have walked in on it, and Neal would probably still be in jail right now. He had a hard time imagining that you'd want a whore for a CI.

Neal reached into his pocket, suddenly glad for the condoms that Officer Daniels had given him, pulled out a rubber ripped open the packaging with his teeth, spitting the paper onto the floor.

"You really think we need that, baby?" Melbane questioned, running his hands slowly through Neal's thick hair, giving it a light tug every now and then.

"Always," Neal said, though that wasn't strictly true. When he'd been a desperate teenager, he'd barebacked for extra bucks on many occasions. And in prison it hadn't always been his choice. But not now, not tonight. Melbane saw whores on a regular basis. It wasn't worth the risk.

Neal nuzzled the other man's cock with his face, rubbing up against it like there was nothing more he wanted in the world than to bury his face in the thing. God, he was already feeling sick to his stomach and they hadn't even started. Being under Peter's thumb had spoiled him. Back when he'd been in prison, this had been an everyday occurrence.

Neal wondered idly how much his life would change because of this mess. Peter wouldn't send him back there, would he? Nah, there was no way. Neal helped him solve too many cases. But maybe other things would change. Maybe *Peter* would change. Maybe knowing what Neal had been would make him see his CI in a whole new light, the kind of light that would have him knocking on Neal's door at night. Oh great, there he went again. This shit was messing with his head again. Peter would never do that. Peter was a good man. Peter could be trusted. Neal was sure of that. Wasn't he?

"Aw, but sweetie, I want to see my cum running down your pretty little cheeks like tears…"

Neal smiled up at Melbane, the most sultry grin he could manage, as he slipped the condom over the head of Melbane's cock. "You can pull out and cum on me. Yeah, that's what I want, daddy. Your cum, warm and sticky, all over me." His voice was breathy, seductive, but his stomach was rolling with the knowledge that they could hear every word of this back in the van. Hell, it was being recorded for posterity. With his luck one of the lackeys in White Collar would steal the tapes and jerk off to them or something. Some of the Harvard crew really had it in for him, saying he stole their spotlight. They'd love this.

Melbane let out a little moan as Neal licked the head of his penis.

"Okay, angel, that works for me. C'mon now. Let's see your angel lips in action."

Neal leaned forward and opened his mouth, using his hands to direct the head of Melbane's cock between his lips so he could clamp down on it. He didn't wait for Melbane to get used to the sensation, just pushed down even further, cheeks hollowing as he began to suck as hard as he could at the man's dick, hands massaging the base. His step-dad really had said he had the lips of an angel. If there was one thing Neal could do, it was suck on a dick. Fuck all the teasing and the licking and the kissing, he preferred to just take the damn thing in his mouth and suck, suck, suck as hard as he could. He'd found it cut most guys' time in half, the constant, sucking pressure of his mouth winning over the mental urge to hold out and make it last. Plus it usually kept them from flat out fucking his face, which always made bile rise up in his throat that burned when he was forced to choke it down.

There was another moan from above him and when Melbane's hips suddenly shot forward, sending his dick deeper down Neal's throat, his sucking just drew it in further. Melbane's cock hit the back of his throat and he gagged badly, his primal instincts shouting that he needed to vomit or risk choking to death. He wasn't used to the feel of anything being pressed in that far anymore and had to pause for a moment until his stomach stopped threatening to spew its contents. The second the urge to puke had passed, however, he started sucking again, dedicating most of his attention to making sure that his now pretty much constant gagging didn't actually bring anything up.

"Oh, shit, you're no angel, boy. You're a fucking demon is what you are." Fingers yanked roughly at his hair. "You're gonna burn in fucking hell, slut. Oh, yeah, the fire is gonna rise up and engulf you, bitch." Neal blinked, a little too busy keeping himself from puking as he sucked to totally comprehend the words. Something about them, though… There was something about those words…

Melbane shoved his hips forward without warning and Neal lost the battle with his gag reflex, forcing him to swallow down bile. He kept swallowing even after it was gone, drawing the head of Melbane's cock down, throat contracting around it. The guys at prison had liked that.

"Gonna burn, baby, gonna buuuurn…"

Neal's eyes latched on to something behind Melbane and he blinked rapidly to clear away the tears brought on by the gagging, something about what he was seeing nagging at the back of his mind. It was the vase, the one he'd put the bug in, with its bright lilies, shining like orange balls of fire against the red walls of the bedroom.

Wait, shining like fire? The lilies… they were… they were…

"Gonna burn in hell, slut."

They were fire lilies.

Oh, God. Neal's eyes flickered around a little frantically, taking in everything. The room was red. The walls, the rugs, the bed, the shelves. All red. Red like fire.

Neal choked, and this time it wasn't from the cock down his throat. It was Melbane. Oh, God. Their perp was Melbane. Melbane was their firebug. It was fucking Melbane! And Neal was trapped in a room with him.

"Kneel!"

Okay, he just needed to keep calm. He'd finish what he was doing and find away out of there. Melbane would never be any the wiser. It would be okay.

"Kneeeel."

For God's sake, he was already on his knees! What the fuck did the man want from him?

"Oh, kneel. Kneel, kneel, *kneel.*"

It hit Neal like a punch to the stomach. Melbane wasn't telling him to kneel… He was saying his name.

Neal hadn't told Melbane his name.

He started to pull away, then let out a whimper as Melbane caught his head in his hands, forcing him back down on his dick.

"God, Neal, your agent friend must love having you as a pet." Neal whimpered again as Melbane tugged at his hair. "Does he spank you when you're bad? Turn your ass as red as flame?"

Neal made a frightened noise at the terrifying look on Melbane's face. He was grinning so wide he looked like the Joker, only not quite as sane.

Okay, they had to have realized something had gone wrong by now. Peter had sworn they'd break the doors down if they had to. He would come. He would.

"Oh, baby, don't stop now…" The man smirked down at him. "You're in my house now, baby, and you are going to be very, very good if you want to leave with your skin intact." He laughed, an evil sound. "Because you know I like to burn things." He ran a finger along Neal's face. "But don't worry, I'll save your pretty face for last, angel."

Oh God, oh God, oh God. A tear ran down Neal's cheek.

"Well, come on, angel. Keep your not-so-holy lips working."

Neal began to suck again, though he was too panicked to keep himself from gagging and he kept having to swallow the bile down over and over until his throat felt like raw meat.

Where the hell was Peter? Were they stuck outside? Were the house's defenses too good for them.? Were they not coming for him at all? No, that was crazy thinking. Of course they'd come. Peter had promised he'd come if anything went wrong. But if so, then where was he? They wouldn't leave him here. He wasn't some hooker no one gave a damn about. The FBI needed him. Right? Of course they did. Peter would come. He would. He would.

"I think I'll start with your ass… Make it burn like I bet your agent friend does." Neal let out a sob around Melbane's cock, his shoulders shaking as he tried to figure some way out of here. There was absolutely nothing to keep Melbane from killing him, from burning him like he had the people in that museum. And there was no point in running. He'd thought it before—the house was like a fucking prison. He wouldn't get ten feet then Melbane would be on him. He was taller and stronger than Neal and obviously had no qualms about hurting people. He was a sadist, for God's sake. There was no way Neal could fight him off.

Oh, God, where was Peter?

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Melbane grabbed Neal's head, yanking his mouth off his dick with a popping sound. He pulled the condom off, tossing it aside, and a second later he came, spurting onto Neal's face. Tt must have been awhile since the man had orgasmed because there was enough semen to sprinkle Neal's bangs and to drip down from his forehead to his nose and cheek. He moved to wipe it away and Melbane smacked him across the face.

"Leave it. I like it."

Neal sniffled, cowering back away from Melbane, wrapping his arms around his legs like that would really protect him. What did it matter anyway? Apparently Peter wasn't coming, though Neal didn't know why.

"H-how did you know who I am?" Neal asked hoarsely, the words painful on his aching throat.

Melbane snorted and moved across the room, shuffling through a drawer next to his bed. "Seriously? Utility vans everywhere? Requests from the Bureau for info on my usual toy? A federal agent sitting across the street staring at the new boy on the block for hours then running off to rot in a van three blocks away? I'm not a fool, Neal. Not even close. In fact, I'm about as far from a fool as you can get. Your little agent friend on the other hand…"

Melbane turned around, hiding whatever he'd pulled from the drawer behind his back. "I said that catching a cheap whore wasn't worth the effort. I didn't say *anything* about trapping an informant for the FBI."

Though he knew it was useless, Neal jumped up and sprinted for the door, pulling uselessly at the handle. There was probably a remote keypad hidden somewhere close, but he couldn't see it. Not that he could hack it in the three seconds he had until Melbane reached him. There was no way he could overpower the bigger man. He was screwed. So, so screwed.

Neal whimpered, shoulders shaking as Melbane strode across the room, coming to a stop before him. His eyes widened as he watched the man slowly pull something out from behind his back. Oh, God, no.

"Goodnight, Neal," the man whispered and Neal let out a scream as the tazer came down on his shoulder, sending violent shocks wracking through his entire body. "Hope this doesn't burn…"


	8. Chapter 8: The Truth Burns

_See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)

o o o

**Chapter 8: The Truth Burns  
><strong>

Peter paced back and forth—well, as much as you could pace back and forth in a van—with a furious look on his face.

"How the hell could he have done this? Is he insane?" Peter picked up the headphones he'd abandoned a few seconds ago, glaring at them like they had personally scorned him. "Why the *hell* did I ever let him do this?! Why the hell did you two let *me* do this?! Dammit!" The shouting, at least, helped distract Peter from the sick feeling he got in his stomach when he imagined Neal doing… whatever he was doing with that Melbane bastard.

How the hell could Neal have gone there? Peter specifically told him that if the man wanted too much, Neal should get the hell out of that place. And whatever was going on over that wire was definitely too much. The signal kept going in and out, with the occasional bit of static on the line, but what they could hear was more than enough to figure out that Neal wasn't giving the man a foot rub in there.

"Boss, you need to calm down," Diana said, frowning up at Peter. "Whatever Melbane's got in there that's messing with our signal is bad enough. I can barely hear at all with you yelling." She pushed the headphones harder against her ear. "Dammit, more white noise. Maybe we should move the van and see if we can get a better signal?"

"If we move the van then we might lose it all together," Peter snapped. "And that is not happening! I want to know exactly what is going on in there with that sick fucker."

"Hey, Peter, Caffrey's gonna be fine," Jones said in a soothing voice, though Peter noticed that he'd dropped his earphones to the floor. Apparently Peter wasn't the only one freaked out by what was going on in that room right now.

"Okay, I've got the signal back," Diana said, waving for Peter to pick up his earphones. "Melbane's talking. Something about," she grimaced, "spanking his ass until its red?"

"Oh, great," Jones said, looking sick to his stomach. "Just what I wanted to hear."

"Damn it, got the static again."

Peter smacked a hand down angrily on the wall of the van. "Dammit, I am going to *kill* Neal for disobeying my—" Peter cut off abruptly as his cellphone began to ring. He clenched his jaw and yanked it out of his pocket, hoping to God that it wasn't El. He wasn't sure he could handle playing the good husband right now. Not when he was busy imagining Neal off all alone with some pervert doing… doing… doing *things.*

Peter frowned deeply as he looked at the name on the screen. It definitely wasn't El. "Why the hell is Reese calling me during an op?" he muttered as he pressed the 'accept' button. "What is he, a goddamn psychic? The second something goes wrong, he knows about it?"

Jones made an amused sound and Diana smirked.

"Burke here," Peter said briskly, though what he really wanted to do was give the wrinkled old agent a piece of his mind for distracting him from his therapeutic ranting.

"Peter, you need to shut down the operation *right* now!" Hughes said, the urgency in his voice enough to make Peter's stomach flop. "Do not, under *any* circumstances, let Caffrey go into Melbane's house!"

Peter's heart sped up. "It's a little late for that, Reese. Why, what's going on?"

"Dear Lord," Hughes muttered, and Peter thought he heard a hint of fear in the words. "Peter, you need to get him out ASAP. One of the White Collar division finally got a chance to talk to that hooker Melbane likes and, as it turns out, the kid is covered head to toe in burns. Has 'em on his arms, back, chest, thighs, legs… Pretty much everywhere but his face."

"Covered in burns?" Peter said, brow furrowing. "What does—" He cut off abruptly, eyes widening. "You mean you think…"

"Melbane is our guy, definitely. Apparently playing with fire is his kink, which is why he has to hire the cheapest meat on the market—they're the only ones desperate enough to do it. Also, he must be getting out a lot more than we know because surveillance has him safe at home during all the fires. But our pryo is the right weight and height for Melbane. I've got a team on the way, but you need to get Caffrey out pronto!"

"Dammit!" Peter cursed as he shoved his phone back in his pocket, grabbing the headphones he'd dropped and holding them to his ear. The static was gone, but there were no voices, no sounds, just silence. "Nothing. There's nothing. Dammit!" Peter threw the headphones so hard that they cracked against the wall of the van, making Jones jump in his seat. "Melbane is our pyro, guys! We need Neal out yesterday!"

Diana and Jones jumped to their feet, pulling out their guns.

"Come on," Peter said, kicking open the van door. "Let's show the bastard what happens when you play with fire."

o o o

The world was a blurry place. Like an impressionist painting, all the colors swirling about in thick strokes that caught the eye but didn't quite make sense…

There was movement. Was he moving or was the world moving? He hurt and things were moving… This couldn't be good.

The world was Starry Night. He was stuck in a Van Gogh… Neal forced his eyes to focus. No, no this wasn't a Van Gogh. This was outside. How could he be outside? Hadn't he been in Melbane's impenetrable house? With Peter waiting outside in the van? They wouldn't have let Melbane take him, but the hand that was dragging him by his hair was definitely not Peter's. His wire was gone… Panic rose. He had to do something…

Neal reached through the slit in his jeans, pulling out the unused bug. He hit the button on it and let it fall into the grass.

"Where you takin' me?" he asked thickly.

Melbane laughed, stopping for a moment to squat down next to Neal. "Someplace our little angel won't be found until Apocalypse comes to burn the earth and Gabriel blows his horn. Now, how about you go back to sleep, huh?" His hand came down and the world went black again.

o o o

Peter stood in the middle of the bedroom, cursing loudly. They were gone, long gone. It had taken almost a half hour to bust their way in here and, from the slightly awry carpets, it looked like Melbane had dragged Neal from the room. He must have knocked him out somehow.

"We found a door leading to the basement area," Jones said as he walked into the room, voice brisk. "But we way underestimated what we'd find. There have to be thirty rooms down there, and those are just the ones we've found by walking through the halls. Every single one of them has some sort of locking system, but we've managed to get in a couple—unfortunately we're just finding more locked rooms inside the locked rooms. It's enormous. Definitely extends underneath the street and several of the surrounding houses. I have no clue how this guy managed to build it."

"It's amazing what millions of dollars in hush money can get you," Peter said grimly. "Jones, you call headquarters and tell them to get every goddamn locksmith in Manhattan down here *now*. Neal is in here somewhere and we need to find him. Make sure you have two—no, make it *three*—guys on every exterior door and window in the place. Melbane knows he's trapped. We don't want to push him to the limit, not when he has Neal to bargain with, but we also don't want him getting away. Finding Neal is the number one priority."

"Boss," Diana said urgently as she stuck her head in the room. "You need to get back out here. We have talk on Neal's wire."

o o o

Neal blinked several times, trying to clear his head. It felt all cottony, thoughts coming slowly. He was in yet another swirling painting, though this one was primarily made up of shades of grey and silver with some smoky browns thrown in, like Cezanne's dark period.

"Good morning, my fiery angel." Fingers brushed down Neal's shoulder and he flinched. He couldn't quite remember what had happened, but waking up to strange men stroking your skin and calling you 'angel' was never a good start to the day. He'd really prefer a bowl of Wheaties.

Neal tried to move then moaned as his neck and shoulder screamed, a burning sensation shooting through him. Not that he could move all that much anyway considering that he was tied spread eagle, face down on some sort of metal table. The ropes were so tight that he could barely feel his hands. The metal, at least, was cool against the burn running from his neck down to his collarbone. Neal had forgotten how badly burns hurt.

"Where'm I?" The words came out hoarse and slurred and Neal swallowed, trying to wet his very dry mouth. A tall, blurry figure leaned over him and Neal squinted his eyes, wishing that whatever Impressionist had painted this scene had used a finer brush. "What're you doin' with me?"

The figure leaned down farther, features becoming clearer the closer he got. Well, all painters changed their styles throughout their lives.

"Don't you remember, Neal? You wrapped your angel lips around my cock?" The man sounded amused. "My fiery little angel."

Neal grimaced. That's right. He'd gone into Melbane's house, not knowing that his cover had been blown days before. Then Melbane kept telling him to kneel, kneel, kneel even though he was already on his knees. No, he'd *called* him Neal Neal, Neal even though he wasn't supposed to know his name. Then Neal had tried to run and Melbane's hand had come down and it had burned and burned and burned until everything went white.

"Peter's right outside," Neal said, voice still hoarse. He tried unsuccessfully to wet his lips.

Melbane laughed. "What, your infatuated little agent? The one who wanted so bad to bend you over that he got you a get out of jail free card?"

Neal's face turned red. "Fuck you. He's not that kind of man."

"But you are?" There was an interested note to Melbane's voice.

Neal paused, confused. "What?"

"You said that he's not that kind of man. But you are?" Melbane smiled down at him, looking rather pleased with himself, like the cat that ate the canary. "Of *course* you are. You had your lips wrapped around my cock no less than an hour ago. You know, I've never had much faith in the government. Faked moon landings, covering up the fact that John F. Kennedy is still alive, hiding Monica Lewinski's ties to the Russian mob. But this little plan," he ran a finger down Neal's face, "is truly brilliant. Find the prettiest felon you can and whore him out in the name of justice. I love it. Do they all put their names in the office coffee pot and draw who gets you for the night?"

Neal rolled his eyes, something his instantly regretted as his world began to spin. ""If you're trying to insult me, I've heard it all before. I was in fucking prison, for God's sake. There really isn't anything you can do to me that hasn't been done before."

"Oh, I agree," Melbane said, grinning that wicked smile. "I can deduce that from the marks on your body." He leaned over Neal, running his hand along the inside of his thighs, fingers brushing the little circles of toughened skin. "You've certainly been burned before… Was that prison?"

"No," Neal said flatly as he twisted his right ankle, trying to slip it out of the rope. "My step-father had a hard time remembering where he put his ash tray, if you know what I mean."

Melbane laughed loudly. "Oh, I bet he did. And I bet you screamed when he pressed those cigarettes into your pale, soft thighs, filling the room with the smell of burning flesh." He ran a hand down Neal's thigh again, this time pausing to finger each burn. "You know, there's nothing quite like the smell of burning flesh."

"I dunno, it's not so different from bacon," Neal replied, trying to choke down his quickly rising panic. He *had* screamed when the bastard put his cigs out on him. You really couldn't help but scream. Neal had taken a lot of beatings, but burns were the worst. The skin kept sizzling long after the actual heat had been removed.

"And what about this?" Melbane's finger moved from Neal's thighs to his buttocks. Neal tensed. The scars there were hardly visible, much too light to actually read them anymore, but careful fingers could still trace the letters. "S-L-U-T," Melbane whispered before breaking into laughter. "Slut. Was that your daddy too, Neal?"

Neal snorted, still doing his best to play it cool despite the pounding in his chest. "No, *that* one was prison."

Melbane smiled at him, obviously amused, then took a step back, thank God. Neal breathed deeply and began to open and close his fingers. He needed to get some circulation back in his fingers if he was going to have any chance at these knots.

"So what you really mean," Melbane said slowly, "is that is was Agent Burke."

Neal turned his face to look at the man in disbelief. "No, what I mean is that it was a guy named Ralph with a crew cut, bad hygiene, and a shank made out of the part of a toilet that lifts the plug when you push on the handle."

Melbane waved the words away. "I was speaking existentially, Neal. I'm sure that a man with your level of intelligence recognizes that the existential is a thousand times more important than the physical."

The feeling was actually starting to come back in Neal's left hand. He fingered the knot, scowling at its complexity. Apparently this bastard had been an Eagle Scout. God, where the hell was Peter?!

"Oh yeah," Neal replied sarcastically, more to keep the man talking than anything else. If he could just stall long enough, Peter would come for him. "Peter put me in prison, so every time someone shoved a cock down my throat it was metaphorically him. That is so deep, man. I mean, really deep. They should call you Socrates." He snorted. "Please. It's not his fault that I can break into a federal bank vault in ten minutes but I never bothered to learn hot to properly stab someone with a miniature toothbrush."

"He put you there, all alone, Neal," Melbane continued as if Neal hadn't even spoken. "All by yourself." The man moved around the table and Neal turned his face to follow him, heart skipping a beat as his eyes found the small table a few feet away, covered in various implements. How could he have not noticed that before?!

The table was wide and sturdy and held a variety of items including three different sizes of tazers, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a pack of cigarettes, lighter fluid, and a small dish with coal in it. Melbane pulled a lighter from his pock it and ran it over the coals, making them spring to life.

"And now he's left you all alone with me, angel." Melbane's voice was as soothing as the words were disturbing. "You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. He let you go out on the street, all alone."

"Yeah," Neal said sarcastically, "you know, except for the van full of agents."

Melbane just smiled and began to soak a small piece of cloth in the rubbing alcohol. Neal shivered as Melbane leaned over him and drew a line with the rag, right along his spine, leaving it damp. "Neal, Neal, Neal. I think it's time that you and I were straight with one another." As he spoke he began to wind gauze around the end of a stick, building it up until it looked like a marshmallow on the end. "Agent Burke is your father, isn't he?"

"You know what, he is," Neal said with a roll of the eyes. "He had me when he was ten. Please don't tell his wife—it's an uncomfortable subject for us."

Melbane let out an irritated sigh. "I meant existentially! Dammit, boy, I'd heard you were smart. I see I was mistaken." His hands hovered near the burning coal like a silent warning and Neal thought fast, trying to figure out what the psycho wanted to hear.

"Okay, okay, yeah, maybe you're right. Maybe he's kind of like the dad I never had. Existentially, since I did have a dad, no immaculate conception here." Neal paused, frowning slightly at his own words. "Not that he has any right to treat me like a child, which he does all the damn time. But you can stop with your mind games. Peter's a nice guy. Definitely would never put cigarettes out on me."

"Hm…" Melbane said, cocking his head to the side like he was thinking. "But he put you in prison where you were obviously tormented, if the crude words carved into your ass are any evidence."

"I deserved to go to prison," Neal replied flatly, almost glad Peter wasn't there to hear him say it. No, scratch that. Peter being there to hear it would be just fine it stopped Melbane from doing anything with the lighter fluid he'd just poured into a cup. "I was the one who broke the law."

"Oh, I see. You deserved it, just like you deserved to have fiery objects pressed into your flesh as a child."

Neal blinked. What the fuck? When had this conversation derailed? "Excuse me?"

Melbane looked over at him, raising his eyebrows questioningly. "Well, your step-father burned you because you were a bad boy, right? Bad boys deserve what they get, isn't that right, Neal? You deserved what you got from your father, just like you deserved what you got from Agent Burke."

God, it was like being in Satanic therapy, taking healthy individuals and rooting out all their problems until they go mad.

"You really like to mess with people's heads, don't you?" Neal asked in a low voice, memories of his step-father making a lump rise in his throat. Where the hell was Peter? Surely he realized by now that Neal was in trouble. It was time for the Feds to come in with guns a'blazing, wasn't it?

"No one is messing with your head, Neal. I'm merely trying to parse the truth from the lies you want to believe," Melbane said. "There are lies, everywhere. People lie to others, they lie to themselves," Melbane's lip curled up and he looked like he was getting agitated. Not good. "But fire is pure, honest. It has nothing to hide. It burns bright and hot and true." He picked up the stick he'd dumped into the lighter fluid, smiling terrifyingly at Neal.

"I know one thing that's true," Neal snapped. "If you do anything to me, Peter will put you away forever."

"You think so?" Melbane questioned, not even bothering to look at Neal as he fumbled through the things laid on the table, coming up with a lighter. "Then where is he, Neal? It's been hours now. Don't you understand? No one is coming for you. Apparently your Agent Burke has decided you're not worth saving." He chuckled cruelly. "Perhaps the way you so eagerly sucked another man's cock has made him see his pet in a new light."

Neal laughed aloud at that, despite the sick feeling that rose at the words, tiny slivers of doubt piercing his mind. "Please. He'll come for me."

Melbane smirked and flipped the lighter open, striking it. The small flame illuminated his face in a disturbing way. "Neal, you got yourself into this. I know that Agent Burke wouldn't have wanted his personal play thing to do the kind of things you did with me. You didn't play by his rules. You took off, doing your own thing. Now, you'll simply have to face the consequences. It's no different than when you went to prison. Agent Burke knew what would happen to a beautiful man like you, and he didn't care. He didn't ride to your rescue then, did he? After all, you disobeyed the rules. You deserved what you got."

"That's not the same," Neal said in a shaky voice, pulse rushing as he stared at the tiny flame in front of him, entranced.

"Oh there's the big lie, the flaw in societal logic. Don't you see what liars they are, Neal? Agent Burke put you, so pretty and helpless, in a cage with a bunch of strong, angry men who had nothing better to do than hurt you, and he told you that was okay because you'd been a bad boy." Melbane smirked. "Your dear 'Peter' did what he *had* to do, right? He couldn't have left you to your silly crimes that never even hurt anyone. No, he *had* to take you down and bind you so that you couldn't escape. He had to do whatever he could to make certain that you would go away to live like an animal surrounded by men who would hurt you and use you. And every punch, every fuck, every nasty word carved into your beautiful ass for the next four years would be completely deserved. You deserved it all, Neal Caffrey, because you defied Peter Burke. Just like you defied him today."

Melbane held up the stick with the gauze on the end, dipping it into the flame. It lit up like a flare and Neal choked back a sob. He had to be strong. Peter would come, he would. The things Melbane was saying… He was trying to scare Neal, to twist his mind. They weren't true. Peter wouldn't leave him here to be hurt by this man. He wouldn't. Would he?

"Don't you see what *liars* they are, Neal? So many lies, everything, that they've convinced you are truths!" Neal whimpered as Melbane waved the flame close enough to Neal's face that he could feel the edges of the fire tickle his cheek. "Do you really believe that Peter Burke will come to save you Neal, after all the bad things you've done?"

"Yes!" Neal said, eyes locked on the flame, pulse rushing. "He will. He will!"

A cruel smile appeared on Melbane's face. "Like how he came to save you in prison, after you'd done all those bad things?"

"That was different. God, please don't burn me!" Neal hated how helpless he sounded, but all he could think was that with one little move of the stick, Melbane could catch his hairspray on fire and his whole head would go up in flame.

"Different because you deserved it then, but you don't deserve it now."

His head felt light, woozy. Neal took a slow, deep breath, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating as his eyes followed the swaying of Melbane's little torch so, so close to his face.

Yes," he moaned, not sure what Melbane wanted. "Yes, because I deserved it then. Please don't burn me."

There was a long pause and, for a horrifying instant, Neal thought Melbane was going to plunge the fire into his hair. But instead he actually took a step back, fingers returning to the little round burns inside Neal's thighs. "You mean like you deserved these."

Sweat trickled down Neal's face. "What? I-I didn't deserve those." He dropped his head down on the table with a bang. "I don't understand. I don't understand what you want me to say!"

Melbane's voice was deep and haunting. "But you believed once that you deserved them, didn't you, little Neal?"

Neal froze, breath catching as dark memories flooded him.

"Well? You did, didn't you?" Melbane hissed, the flame appearing back in Neal's face. "Didn't you?!"

"Yes," Neal moaned, blinking back tears. "Yes, I believed that I deserved them, okay? Are you happy? Please don't burn me."

Melbane ignored his pleading. "So you believed you deserved them, just like how you believe now that you deserve the things Peter Burke did to you."

Neal shivered like he was freezing, an oxymoron that would have been amusing if he hadn't been scared out of his mind. "But I did deserve—"

"Lies!" Melbane interrupted, slamming his free hand down on the table hard enough to make it rattle. "It's all lies and you know it!" He moved the fire stick downward, holding it just above the trail of alcohol he'd wiped down Neal's back.

"Admit it, Neal. Admit that Peter was the one who hurt you, just as much as the man who shoved his cigarettes into your flesh! Free yourself from the lies, Neal! Rise above them, burn them away, and admit that, deep down, you fear Peter Burke! Be true and embrace that little voice screaming from the deepest depths of your soul, the voice that the liars tell you to ignore! The voice of truth! For once in your life, Neal Caffrey, tell the truth!"

No. No, it wasn't true. This man was the liar. It wasn't the same, his time in prison. It wasn't. And this, here, now wasn't the same, either. Peter would come for him this time. It wouldn't be like in prison. It wouldn't! This time Peter would come for him. Peter wouldn't hold his past against him, wouldn't abandon him over the things he'd done tonight. He would come. He would. It wasn't the same. It wasn't the same!

Neal whimpered as the stick dropped lower, no more than half an inch from his skin. He could feel the warmth of the flame against his back. A tear dripped down his cheek.

"Every day you tell your lies, smiling and pretending that everything's okay when, really, you're always afraid. Because he controls you like a master, he defines what you're allowed to be, and you know, deep down inside, that he can do *anything* he wants to you and everyone will believe the lie when he tells them you deserved it!" Melbane's face appeared next to Neal and he blew gently on the fire stick, making the flames arch toward Neal.

Neal whimpered, wanting to turn his face away but too afraid to take his eyes off the flame. Peter was his friend, not his enemy. He was more than a badge to Neal's anklet. He was! Another tear ran down his cheek as Melbane stood and he felt the fire hovering above his back once more.

"Admit it, Neal. Admit that you're afraid of him, afraid of his intentions, and I won't burn your pretty flesh."

"Yes!" he shouted, not entirely sure if it was the truth or if he was just trying to save his own skin, literally. "I admit it… I'm afraid. Afraid that I'm not good enough for him, that I'll fuck up and he'll send me back. Afraid of what he thinks I deserve. Because it all hurt so, so bad, and all I ever hear, every day, is how I only got what I deserved." Neal let out a sob, tears flowing freely down his cheeks now. "Over and over about how I pissed in my own bed. I admit it, okay? I'm afraid. Afraid that he's not coming because he knows what I am now. Please, please, please don't burn me!"

Melbane smiled gently. "That's a good boy. Doesn't the truth feel nice? I'm so glad to hear you speak so honestly." He laughed, a wicked sound that made Neal look up in alarm, eyes widening as he watched the man pull out Neal's thick leather wristband from his pocket. Neal's breath caught, a whole new level of fear pulsing through him. Oh, God, no.

"And I'm also very glad that Peter now knows the real truth about you, about what really lies behind your practiced smile. I'm glad he knows that, despite everything he's done to help you, you're still a cowardly, ungrateful liar who thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants and get away with it." Melbane laughed again, and there was definitely an edge of madness to it. "You know what, angel? He may have been looking for you before, but now? I don't think he has any reason to come at all." He shook his head, looking down at Neal like he was some kind of naughty child, then held the wire out over the cup of alcohol. "Goodbye, Agent Burke. It was nice talking to you."

Neal let out a desperate cry as the wire dropped down into the liquid, eyes brimming with more tears. No, no, no, no. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't.

Melbane smiled, holding out his still-burning stick. "And now, as for you…" The fire dipped down, hovering between Neal's shoulders just above the wet line of alcohol.

"Y-you said you wouldn't…"

Melbane laughed. "I told you, Neal. Everyone's a liar."

The stick dropped down and Neal let out a scream.

o o o

Peter slammed the door open, practically twisting it off its hinges. El stood, eyes wide and startled.

"Hey, hon—"

"Is he here?" Peter interrupted, looking around wildly. "Is he here?"

"Yeah, he's in the kitchen…"

A small, balding head appeared in the doorway. "Y'know, Suit, not everybody is at your call. I was right in the middle of comparing images of middle American crop circles to patterns carved on ancient Celtic alters in—"

"Mozzie," Peter cut in, not interested in wasting time listening to theories about aliens at Stonehenge, "if you lived in a one story house just outside the city with an underground fortress and the FBI had you surrounded, what would you do?"

Mozzie blinked several times, looking rather stunned. "Excuse me?"

Peter let out an irritated sigh. "Mozzie, Neal's in trouble. A paranoid pyromanic is holding him hostage and fucking torturing him, messing with his head and God knows what." He let out a choked sob and Elizabeth stood abruptly, reaching out to wrap her arms around him.

"Honey, what do you mean? What's going on?" She reached her hand up and touched his cheek, looking astonished. "And why are you crying?"

Peter choked, pushing her away from him. He didn't want her comfort. He didn't *deserve* her comfort. And *that* was the truth, as real as fire.

"God, El, it was horrible. We sent him undercover as a prostitute into Joseph Melbane's house, then we find out the bastard knew about the op all along, that he's the one whose been setting the fires. And Neal was crying and Melbane kept saying that we weren't coming for him and yelling at him to 'tell the truth' and Neal, oh God El, he blames me and he *should* blame me, he should, because I was such a fool, and now he hates me, oh God." The words were coming so fast that he could barely understand himself.

Peter rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the tears. "He didn't think about the consequences when he committed his crimes but *I* didn't think about the consequences when I put him away, I didn't do anything to protect him, and I think he hates me now, El," he said, stumbling over the words. "And some sick bastard is torturing him and there's nothing I can do to help him! He's afraid now and he's been afraid this whole time and it's all my fault." He dropped down on the sofa, letting his head fall into his hands. "It's all my fault."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down, Suit!" Mozzie said, holding up a hand. "Joseph Melbane has Neal? As in President of the Society for the Destruction of Orwellian Futures Joseph Melbane?"

"The what?" Peter looked up, doing his best to quell the emotions racing through him as he focused his attention on Mozzie. Neal was missing. He needed to have a clear head, as impossible as that seemed after having to listen to Melbane's little torture session with Neal. "Joseph Melbane as in the black market fence with a sense of paranoia to rival, well, yours. Which is why I need your help." He clenched his fists. "You have to help me."

"What, exactly, happened?" El asked, wringing her hands as she settled down on the couch next to him, leaning into his shoulder.

Peter swallowed down the lump in his throat. "We had this case where the perps were setting fires to get their hands on some high end art. Melbane is an antisocial bastard who never leaves his house, but we figured out an in. Every week he visits the same male prostitute in the red light district. So we picked the kid up and sent Neal in his place."

"Okay, Suit," Mozzie said, looking agitated. "Two things here—first, you sent Neal in as a whore?! The man who spends every day choking on your electronic leash? Where are your scruples?"

"He said he didn't have a problem with it—"

"Probably because he has a strange obsession with winning your approval! Talk about a powder keg, especially considering his history!" Mozzie made a disgusted face.

Peter frowned, confused. "His history?"

Mozzie sighed. "Right. Forgive me, that was my fault. I forget sometimes that you're not actually his *friend* and don't bother talk to him about things like his *feelings*. It was lax of me to let that slip my mind. Let's hit the erase button on point number one since I will never be able to convince Neal to file harassment charges against you." He held up two fingers. "Number two. Or second number one. What do you mean, Melbane the antisocial bastard? Melbane is a hardcore member of several anti-establishment groups. And, as much as I hate 'The Man,' I have to admit that some of the groups Melbane's associated with kind of scare me. I don't think we should be helping the Canadian government hide their weapons of mass destruction in Serbia, but I also don't think that bombing Quebec is the solution. I see him every other week at the New York Anarchist Club's bi-weekly tea party, but we're not exactly buddies."

Peter's brow furrowed. "That… that's not possible. He never leaves his house."

"Oh, yes he does," Mozzie said flatly. "He leaves it all the time.

"But we staked him out!" Peter said, confused. They'd sat outside that house for a goddamn week and never even saw a curtain move. "We never saw him leave!"

Mozzie sighed dramatically. "Well you *wouldn't,* would you? We're not fools, Suit. You think he didn't notice a utility van hanging around outside his place? He played you. And now he could be anywhere. Hotel, safe house, grounded alien spacecraft. You won't be able to trace him. It's not like Melbane is his real name. I'm sure he's got a thousand identities lying around with everything from credit cards to bank accounts ready to use when necessary." He shook his head, obviously upset. "He could have Neal anywhere in this damn city thanks to you!"

Peter shook his head rapidly. "No. We have the house surrounded and we have every agent in New York working their way through Melbane's labyrinth of alarm systems, but it's taking forever and we don't have the time. Neal is in there somewhere and we have to get him out." _Before he hurts him_, hung unsaid in the air.

"A waste of time," Mozzie said flatly. "Like I said, Melbane is gone."

"But how—"

"You said he has an underground fortress. Why not a tunnel or twelve leading out, maybe even into the sewers? You can get pretty much anywhere through the sewers."

"Oh, God," Peter said, his face paling. "I-I hadn't thought of that."

Mozzie rubbed his forehead. "Dammit, Suit, I cannot believe you were this stupid! Come on, take me to Melbane's."

Peter swallowed hard, shaking his head slowly. "I… I can't."

"Don't fight me on this, Suit!" Mozzie said, sticking a finger in his face. "If anyone can track a man like Melbane, it's me."

"I know, I know," Peter said, holding up his hands. "That's why I called you. But… I can't just take you over to Melbane's. They… they kicked me off the case."

El made a soft sound of shock. "They kicked you off the case? Why?"

Peter gave a bitter laugh. "I don't know. Maybe it was the whole thing where I punched the wall yelling 'it's all my fault, I never meant to hurt him' over and over again. Hughes says I'm too close to the case." He shook his head. "I don't know why he wants me out! I said, to him, 'It's not like it's El,' and he just looked at me with this know-it-all face and I just wanted to punch it in—DAMMIT!" He slammed a first into the arm of the couch.

"Wow," Mozzie said, eyebrows raised. "I see Melbane really got to you. He use his 'let me tell you what the *real* truth is' trick? I am far from your biggest fan, Suit, but whatever Melbane did to make you think Neal doesn't adore you in a really peculiar way, it's total crap."

Peter wrapped his arms around himself tightly as El kissed his cheek. She was so wonderful. He didn't deserve anyone so wonderful.

"Neal… he said he's afraid of me," Peter said hoarsely. "That I put him in prison to get… get bad things done to him. That I… that I was like a father who hurt him and then made him believe he deserved it."

Mozzie rolled his eyes, looking at Peter like he was an idiot. "You know, Suit, there's a reason that things said under duress are not admissible in court."

"No… No, this was the truth. I'm sure of it." Peter blinked back tears. "Totally sure of it."

"Honey, I've seen you and Neal together, and that man is not afraid of you. That man respects you and cares about you," El replied, voice quiet.

"She's right, Suit," Mozzie said, scowling down at him. "You want the 'real truth'? I'll tell you the 'real truth.' Neal thinks you're the best thing since the Mona Lisa heist so, for God's sake, don't hold anything he said against him. He's had a tough life and Melbane is practically a pro at twisting everything bad that's ever happened to you into a big lump of Terrible then splattering it all over your face. The important thing is that we find him before Melbane goes completely off the deep end. You have to take an oath when you join the Ultimate Liberation Squad that you will not use your powers to kill unless the tools are being prepared for the lobotomy, but like I said, Melbane runs with a rougher crew. I don't think he's ever killed anyone, but let's not have Neal be his first."

"Oh he's killed someone," Peter said grimly. "A little girl and her father burned to death in the last gallery hit. We don't think it was intentional, but Melbane sure didn't seem bothered by it. His pyromania is growing."

"Oh God," El breathed, grip tightening on his arm. "Peter, you have to do *something*. You didn't just sit there and do nothing when I was kidnapped."

Peter took a deep breath. "You're right. I have to do something… but what can I do? Hughes isn't going to let me waltz back into Melbane's place. He specifically told me to go home and sit tight."

"Well," Mozzie said, "if we can't waltz in, then I guess we're gonna have to tango."

Peter looked at him, raising an eyebrow, and Mozzie let out an annoyed sigh.

"Sneak in, Suit. We're going to have to sneak in."


	9. Chapter 9: Fight Fire With

_See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)

**Author's Notes:** This is kind of a short chapter (okay, a really short chapter compared to my usual wordcount LOL), but I should have the next out this week. :)

o o o

**Chapter 9: Fight Fire With...  
><strong>

o o o

Neal let out a cry as the fire flashed across his back, heart pumping madly as he waited for the burning sensation to hit. And waited. And waited.

Melbane began to laugh, a big smirk on his face. "See, I didn't lie to you. I said that if you told me the truth then I wouldn't burn you." His voice was overly sweet. "I *didn't* say that I wouldn't set you on fire." He laughed again, reaching out and smacking Neal's ass. "Relax, fire angel. It was just a little fun. Rubbing alcohol burns off the skin before you even have the time to feel it. A little flash of flame and poof! It's out."

Neal held his breath as Melbane smeared some of the alcohol across his butt cheeks, sweat trickling down his face as he craned his neck to watch the fire stick dip down. He flinched as the flame caught, then a tickling feeling danced across his ass and it was gone. Neal let his head fall with a bang onto the table, breath coming hard.

"Isn't it exciting, though?" Melbane said in a low, husky voice. Neal watched as he set the fire stick aside and pulled himself up on the table, kneeling between Neal's spread legs. "The anticipation, the fear…" Obviously Melbane was really enjoying it, because Neal could see his cock pressing against his trousers. "But not that we have you all warmed up, it's time to move on to the real fun…"

Fingernails dug hard into Neal's back, making him shudder.

"Please," he said, yanking again at the ropes binding him. "Please, let me go." It was useless, pleading. Neal knew that logically, knew that a pyro like Melbane would never let him leave unscathed, that he wouldn't be satisfied until he smelled burning flesh, but he couldn't stop the words from flowing. He hadn't felt this helpless since the day he'd begged Peter to take him from that hell of a prison. "Please, don't," he said again, moaning a little on the word.

"I don't think so, angel lips." Neal gritted his teeth. He was *really* starting to regret that he'd ever said that. "I'm going to make sure that, from now on, everyone who sees you will know who you belong to…" He laughed again. "No lies, just the honest truth, burnt into your flesh for everyone to see."

"Fuck you," Neal said, voice hoarse. "I don't belong to you." He stiffened as he felt Melbane lay a soft kiss on his neck, just above the taser burn.

"I only speak the truth, Neal," whispered, nuzzling Neal's hair. "I just want everyone to know the truth."

"Tell me again how breaking into Melbane's neighbor's house is going to help us find Neal?" Peter said as he followed Mozzie through the dark hallway.

"Look, Suit, Melbane has a way out of his house that twenty federal agents doing round the clock surveillance couldn't figure out. We know he has underground rooms so, working off that, I figure he has an underground tunnel."

Peter made a sound of annoyance. "Yeah, I got that part, Mozzie. I didn't get this badge for being an idiot. I get it. This house is probably Melbane's. It's obviously unoccupied, despite the furniture and the kids' games on the floor in the living room. There's dust on the sofa and all the mail is generic junk. There are timers on the lamps to go on during the day and off at night. But you said it yourself. He's probably connected to the sewers. Why would he pull him out through here when he could stay underground?"

"Sewers do make a good exit," Mozzie said as he leaned around a corner like he was in some kind of spy movie, studying the darkness before darting forward, the light on his helmet lamp shining the way. "But, all Ninja Turtle references aside, walking through the sewers all the time will not win you friends. He's got to have a tunnel that leads out to the street, the one for everyday use. He'd have a car there. The sewers, he'd have to drag him. Melbane's strong, but that would wear him out. In all likely hood he came out of one of the houses on this street."

"*If* he really got Neal out of the house."

Mozzie gave him a withering look. "It may take the Feds days to break through all his fancy alarm systems and super locks, but they *will* get through. You know as well as I do that Melbane will want to be gone by then. He can't risk being caught now. He drew a line in the sand when he taunted you about taking Neal."

"Hell yes he did," Peter muttered.

"I have no doubt he'll be on a plane by morning with a brand new identity, Suit, and I think you know that too. What I'm *not* sure about is what he's going to do with Neal." Mozzie knelt down suddenly, squinting. "Hey, Suit, take a look at this."

Peter knelt down beside him, eyes widening as something twinkled in Mozzie's headlamp. There was a trail of glitter smeared along the floor.

"I'm guessing that this was not left by the previous tenants' little girl?" Mozzie said grimly.

"Neal had glitter in his hair," Peter whispered, remembering the way it had sparkled in the lights of the bar. Neal had looked so beautiful. He should have told him he looked beautiful, not kidding, just straight up. He never thought that it might be his last chance.

Dammit! Melbane was a dead man.

"Looks like we found our emergency exit, Suit."

He was the most pitiful person in the world. That was all Neal could think as he rubbed his face against the metal of the table, trying to wipe away some of the snot and tears. He'd tried to hold on to a few slivers of his price, but within five minutes he'd been screaming out right, as loud as he could. Craning his neck to look at Melbane, begging, begging the bastard to please, please, please stop.

It was pointless. Melbane would just laugh, take a moment to rub his crotch, and then pick up the cauterizing pen again, the instrument so much more menacing than its tiny, glowing tip let on.

Melbane was certainly taking his time making his mark on Neal, pressing the pen deep into his flesh then tracing back and forth, back and forth until the burning hot metal made his flesh sizzle and smoke. When Melbane had first started, Neal had made a rude comment regarding calligraphy class, the number of strokes to a letter, and Melbane's cock—a line he was now seriously regretting. He wasn't even sure how many letters in they were. How long did it take to brand your name into someone? Apparently every letter had to be perfect because he would over and over it again and again. Or maybe the bastard just wanted to make sure the burn would leave a permanent scar. Either way, it hurt like hell and, unlike when the fucker in prison had carved the word 'SLUT' into him, the pain didn't fade once the pressure was gone. It just intensified, the skin continuing to burn even once the pressure of the pen was gone.

Neal had thrown up a little and could taste the blood and bile in his mouth. He'd bitten his tongue several times to try and distract himself from the pain in his ass. It hadn't helped much, but it was better than nothing.

"And there we go, angel lips. A little flourish here and… we're finished." Neal whimpered as a hand smacked down on his ass, right over the burn. "Now… No matter how many lovers you have, little angel," Melbane murmured, his face appearing in front of Neal, a maniacal grin on his face, "they will all know the truth. Every lover who ever graces your bed will see who you really belong to. You won't be able to lie to them anymore."

Neal was in too much pain, nerves strung way too tight, to take hope in the implication that he would live to have new lovers.

"I know who you belong to Neal, and so do you. No lies between us."

"Don't do this," he said, tears welling up in his eyes. "Just leave me alone…"

Melbane let out a cold laugh. "Aw, poor angel, begging, begging, begging. Daddy didn't swoop in and rescue him and now he doesn't know what to do. Though why would he? His angel turned out to be a whore! And that's all you are, isn't it Neal? That's all you've ever been. Daddy's little whore."

Neal gritted his teeth as his hole began to burn, the tip of Melbane's dick pushing it apart. Apparently the man didn't care much for lube because it wasn't coming easy, not easy at all. But it wasn't his first time. Or his second. Or his third. Plenty of men on the streets didn't care much for it, either. It would be okay, it would.

"Does your agent friend do this to you, pretty?" Melbane whispered, making Neal cringe. "Are you his little angel, too? I really wish I could have seen his face when he found out that his angel is a whore."

"Leave me alone," Neal snapped, blinking back more tears. "Just fuck me and leave me alone!"

"Oh my," Melbane said, "is that how you like it? That explains so much. Fuck and run Neal. I like it. You call yourself an angel, but you know what you are. You know that you're a demon and a whore!" He thrust his hips forward and Neal cried out at the pain, losing his battle with the tears. "Oh, and I like that!" He pulled back and thrust in again.

"Shut up!" Neal shouted. "Shut up, shut up, shut up! I'm not a whore, I'm not! Not anymore!"

Melbane groaned loudly. "Oh, angel, my dick could argue with that."

Peter kicked the grass in frustration, fists balled at his side as he glared down at the tore marks on the driveway. "How the hell could this have happened? The bastard got away right under our noses!" He let out a defeated laugh, burying his face in his hands. The son of a bitch had gotten away with Neal. Peter had let him get away with Neal. He had promised to take care of him, to protect him, and now Neal was in pain again and it was all Peter's fault.

"That's what you get for underestimating the enemy, Suit," Mozzie said in a harsh voice. "Melbane was three moves ahead of you the whole time. This is what you get for playing by the rules. You should have knocked over the fucking chess board while you had the chance!"

Peter couldn't even find it in him to snap back. Mozzie was right. He'd assumed that they'd been holding all the cards when, in truth, Melbane had been playing a whole 'nother game. Had the bastard even given a fuck about selling the art or had it just been an excuse to set fires and play games? He wasn't sure. Obviously the man wasn't sane, and you couldn't expect psychopaths to play by a normal agenda.

"For the love of God, Burke, what are you doing over here?" Peter jerked at the sound of Hughes' voice, eyes widening as the man stormed across the yard, a furious look on his face. "I told you to go home, dammit! We will find Caffrey, okay? He's in that damn house somewhere and if we have to break down every single door, we will find him!" His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Mozzie.

"He's not in the house, Reese," Peter snapped back. "He's gone." He gestured vaguely toward the tire tracks on the ground. "There was an exit tunnel. Melbane dragged Neal out here. It looks like they took off in a car."

Hughes stared at him for a long moment then turned and cursed. "Goddammit!" He kicked the ground violently then took a deep breath before turning back around. "Okay, okay. I'll put a citywide search out on Melbane. We'll find him." He pointed a finger at Peter. "And you can take your… little friend… and get your ass home, Burke! I told you I want you off this case! You are way too emotionally involved!"

Rage surged through Peter and it took everything he had not to sock his boss in the face. "What the hell? We're the ones who found the damn exit tunnel! If it weren't for us, you'd still be looking through an empty house."

Hughes just glared at him. "No, Peter." He held out a hand. "Give me your wire and your earbud. I don't want to hear your voice over my coms again until this is over. We'll keep you updated, I promise."

Peter stared at him, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "What? Reese, I'm not wearing a wire. I ditched it after I left the bar and returned to the van." His eyes widened as an idea began to form in his mind.

"What, exactly, was Neal supposed to do in Melbane's house, Suit?" Mozzie asked slowly, his head obviously in a similar place.

Peter felt a grin spreading across his face. "He was supposed to drop bugs, Haversham."

The three men stared at each other for a long moment then Hughes let out a rather undignified shout, lifting his walkie talkie. "Guys, get the recording of the line we heard Burke over and rewind, see if you hear anything! Caffrey left us a clue!"

_He thrust in as far as he could, making a wet slapping sound. It hurt so bad and Neal didn't even know why. HE said it was because HE loved him and that sometimes loved hurt, but it still made Neal want to cry. He would be a big boy, though, because he really, really wanted HIM to love him._

_In and out, in and out, on and on and on._

_Neal moaned like a good boy, though he really wished the man on top of him would finish and get the fuck out so that he could take his pay and buy a burger._

_Neal stared dully out through the bars. Monty kept grunting, hips moving fast. It was hard and thoughtless and animalistic._

_Why the fuck couldn't they leave him alone? What had he done to deserve this? He'd never even hurt anybody. A tear ran down his face, but Neal wiped his away with the shoulder of his orange scrubs before the man on top of him could see it and laugh at him._

_"I can handle everything but women crying. That's all. I don't know what to do with it. I try to fix it. I mean, with you, I give you a slug on the shoulder and tell you to cowboy up…" Neal nodded, wondering idly what it would be like to have Peter try and fix it when he cried. It seemed like Peter could fix anything… If only he cared enough to try and fix Neal._

"Oh yeah, you *are* an angel, baby…" Melbane's moan wrenched Neal back into the moment, a place he really didn't want to be. But his head wasn't exactly a happy place right now, either, so what the hell?

There was a loud groan above him and as Melbane pulled out, Neal felt stickiness running out his cheeks. Melbane let out one last sigh then sort of collapsed on top of the smaller man. As he did so the cauterizing pen dropped out of his hand, clattering onto the table. Neal stared at it silently, eyes flickering between it and what he could see of Melbane's slack form. If he could get ahold of that pen…

Very, very carefully Neal reached out with his chin, stretching slowly, slowly. He clenched his teeth as he felt it start to move, rolling it closer and closer until he was able to pull it down far enough to hide it under his cheek.

Now all he needed to do was get out of these ropes.

_"Where you takin' me?"_

Peter swallowed deeply. Neal sounded so small, so young. So helpless. How could he have left him there, so helpless?

Melbane laughed. God, Peter hated that sound. _"Someplace our little angel won't be found until Apocalypse comes and Gabriel blows his horn. Now, how about you go back to sleep, huh?"_

"Play it again," Peter instructed, though the last thing he wanted to hear was that hoarse, bleary voice, so thick and confused. He should have protected him. He was supposed to protect him!

Diana hit the button and Neal's voice filled the van once more.

_"Where you takin' me?"_

_"Someplace our little angel won't be found until Apocalypse comes and Gabriel blows his horn. Now, how about you go back to sleep, huh?"_

"What does it *mean*?" Peter said, tapping his foot rapidly as he tried to figure out some hidden meaning, some secret word, unwilling to believe that Neal's attempt to contact them had been for naught.

"Maybe nothing," Jones said, looking unhappy as he said what Peter knew everyone was thinking. "Neal tried to get something out of him, but he didn't cave."

"No…" Mozzie said, staring down at the floor. "No, it does mean something. He's taking Neal to some place where he won't be found—until the Apocalypse. When Gabriel blows his horn…" He stood up abruptly, eyes flashing. "I know where he is! The Council of the Four Horsemen have a safe house in the basement of an abandoned church on 28th Street." Mozzie shook his head. "They're really crazy. Honestly thought that on New Years' 2012 the world was going to end! Everyone knows that the Mayan prophecies were re-written by Thomas Jefferson to throw off the British Empire. The world doesn't end until 3012."

"Wow," Diana said dryly, "that's crazy."

"Yeah," Mozzie said, obviously missing the sarcasm. "They are. Nutcases."

Peter stood, checking the gun in his holster. "Well, let's go knock us down some nuthouse doors."

Neal took a deep breath, focusing his mind. He could do this, he could. It was the only choice he had. Melbane was still basking in the afterglow, but he might get up any second. He didn't have time to work at the knots or try and stretch the rope.

On the count of three. One… two… Neal choked down a cry as he popped his thumb out of its socket, pain shooting through his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled, giving a silent prayer of thanks when his mangled hand slipped through the rope.

"Hm… Whatchu doin', angel?" Melbane murmured, and Neal froze.

"Please," he said, not having to fake the desperation in his voice. "Please, let me go."

Melbane chuckled, shifting on top of Neal. "Oh, I don't think so, angel. You've flown your way into hell, and the fires are hot."

Neal couldn't wait anymore, he couldn't. Neal grabbed for the pen, pressing the button as he jammed it into Melbane's arm.

The man let out a cry as he reached out and grabbed Neal by the hair, lifting his head up and slamming it down onto the table.

Neal slapped out at him, then screamed as Melbane grabbed his injured hand and twisted.

"Oh, little angel thinks he can burn the devil…" Melbane held Neal's free arm down while he freed the rope from the edge of the table. Neal whimpered as the man wrapped it around his wrist so tight that the twine felt like it was cutting into his flesh. "You can't burn the devil, little angel," he crooned, lifting his arm up to show off the small burn Neal had made. "I love the fire." He raised the burn to his mouth, running his tongue lightly across it. "The burn is real, it's beautiful. And now I'm going to show you how beautiful it can be." He leaned down until their faces were only millimeters apart, voice rising suddenly. "You think you could burn me?! I'm going to burn you to ashes, whore!"

"Please," Neal whispered as Melbane began to grab madly at the things on his little table, picking them up one by one and slamming them angrily to the ground. "Please, don't."

"Hush now, angel," Melbane growled, baring his teeth as he turned back toward Neal. "It's time to burn!"


	10. Chapter 10: Branded Memories

_See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary_

If you would prefer to read this on Live journal, you can find it at:  
><strong>pucktheperv+dot+livejournal+dot+com+slash+tag+slash+burned<strong> (replace dot and slash with equivalent symbols)

**Author's Notes:** Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I've been making crafts for a craft fair and am VERY busy! I'm working on Origami Soul next so I'll try and get it updated soon.

o o o

**Chapter 10: Branded Memories  
><strong>

o o o

"This is it?" Jones asked in disbelief as he eyed the building before them. "Lucy Furs?"

"It's supposed to be ironic, Suit," Mozzie replied, sounding a little defensive. "Some of us appreciate such word plays."

"It sounds like a teenaged Satanist passing a coded note to his friend in algebra class," Jones said with a little smirk.

"Will you two *stop* bickering?" Peter said, sick of hearing the two of them banter. Neal was somewhere inside this building—or so they hoped—and this rescue mission needed to happen *now.*

"Boss," Diana called as she climbed out of the van, an upset look on her face. "We have a problem."

As if Peter didn't have enough problems already. "And what is that?" he asked tightly.

"I called in for backup like you said, but its been re-routed."

"What?" Peter demanded, face heating up. "What the hell do you mean, re-routed?"

Diana shook her head. "Homeland Security is rounding up every on duty cop, fireman, and paramedic in town. Apparently a bomb went off at the Metropolitan Museum and they suspect terrorist activity. After 9/11, you know how it is."

"Shit," Jones said, a sick look coming over his face. They think this is another 9/11?"

"Don't be stupid," Peter snapped. "It's the middle of the damn night! 9/11 was about making a point, taking out as many people as possible. Just what kind of bomb went off at the museum?"

"I don't know specifics, but apparently large sections of the building are on fire," Diana said. "It's so bad that the firetrucks we had waiting at Melbane's house have even been called in. And with so few agents doing night duty, Hughes had no choice but to head over there as well. Homeland's orders. God bless the Patriot Act."

"Wait, so there's no one left at Melbane's house?" Peter questioned, heart speeding up. "No one at all?"

"I think the locksmiths are still working and a couple of squad cars are on patrol, but other than that? It's the Metropolitan. It's a bigger priority than Melbane."

Peter made a furious sound as the pieces began to fall together. "Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! They played us! It was him! This is how Melbane was going to get the stolen pieces out of his fortress!"

"What?" Jones questioned, looking lost. "By blowing up the Metropolitan?"

"The Metropolitan didn't blow up, Jones," Peter said briskly. "It's on *fire.* It was just a distraction. A big, horrific distraction to get the goods out. Not to mention another step up for Melbane's pyromania."

"Oh dear mother of God," Mozzie said, eyes going wide. "Tons of non-agents in the house entering various rooms, paramedic and fire trucks parked everywhere. You could slip in as a locksmith and take the art out one of the escape routes and stack them in a city vehicle. Then, when everybody's called in by Big Brother, drive the art out and nobody notices. Shit, it's brilliant."

Jones' mouth dropped open. "Wait, you're saying this guy set the Metropolitan Museum of Art on fire just so he could sneak out a few paintings? That's *insane*."

"He's insane," Mozzie replied grimly. "Insane people do insane things. Besides, I don't think it's about the art anymore. Maybe it is for his partners, but I think old Joseph just wants to burn things down now."

"What do we do?" Diana asked, glancing over at the store. "Melbane thinks he's safe in a place where he can wait out the madness, but the second he realizes we tracked him down, God knows what he'll do to Neal."

"Or to everyone," Mozzie put in. "Like I said, he's insane. Most pyromaniacs end up going out in their own flames. If he's far enough gone then he might very well set the whole safe house on fire just to keep us out."

"We need to get in quietly," Peter said, "especially since we're not going to be getting any backup for at least a couple of hours. Not with hundreds of millions of dollars worth of artwork at risk *and* a Homeland Security watch. Jones, you head to the museum, find Hughes, and tell him what we suspect. See if you can find anything there to link Melbane to the fire at the Metropolitan. Also, check to see if any of the emergency vehicles that were at Melbane's are away without leave. But make sure you keep it on the down-low. If Homeland Security gets wind of this, they'll be here with guns a'blazing to take down the so-called terrorist, and they won't care if Neal gets sacrificed along the way. Not with the media all over them spouting talk about 9/11. Mozzie, get with your street contacts. Jones can get you a list of the art taken from the museums Melbane hit. If anybody fences it, I want to know. We are taking those sons of bitches down."

Mozzie made a face. "You know, fences aren't exactly forthcoming about their wares, Suit. Don't you think my talents would be better suited to helping you get Neal out?"

"I think your talents are worthless in a gun fight," Peter snapped. "Melbane has Neal and those bastards were involved. I want them found! Do whatever you have to do to catch the sons of bitches. If anyone is going to burn, it'll be them, for their own damn crimes."

"Okay, I'll see what I can do," Mozzie said, looking worried. "Just make sure you get him out, Suit, or you'll be answering to me."

"Mozzie, you have no idea where the entrance to this bunker might be?" Diana asked as she eyed the building.

"I told you, I'm not one of them," Mozzie replied, sounding a little exasperated. "The only reason I know it's in this building is because an acquaintance from my anarchist's tea was complaining that he couldn't join, being a vegan and all. The fur thing really turned him off."

Jones shook his head. "You have some disturbing friends, you know that?"

"Okay," Peter said, looking down at the curb running along in front of Lucy Furs. "There's a flood drain along the gutter here, so the bunker has to be under the back half of the shop to avoid the sewer. Jones, can you find out what's behind the shop?"

"Already done," he replied. "It's an empty apartment complex, full of squatters. And it's owned by a Ms. Belle Sebub. Somebody sure likes his devil metaphors. No wonder he got such a kick out of taunting Caffrey with the angel thing."

Mozzie frowned. "Angel thing?"

"It's nothing," Peter snapped, shooting Jones a warning look. "Let's focus. Obviously Melbane's crew owns the complex behind the shop, so the bunker could run under that as well, but I doubt the entrance is on that side. No one wants to have to fight their way through a hoard of squatters when the zombie apocalypse hits. Our best bet it the shop." Peter checked the firearm at his side. "Let's get on this, Diana, come with me. We're going in."

She gave a sharp nod, placing her hand on her own weapon. "You got it."

"Get him back, Suit," Mozzie called out as they moved toward the shop. "Do whatever you have to do!"

Peter smiled grimly. He was going to do more than what he 'had to do.' He was going to take this bastard down.

o o o

"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Daddy's gonna buy you a firebird. If that firebird don't sing, Daddy's gonna buy you a, um…" Melbane paused, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully. "What rhymes with diamond ring? Hm…" A wicked grin spread over his face. "An ass fucking! If that ass fuck makes you hurt, Daddy's gonna make sure you get burnt! Ha!" Melbane laughed, obviously pleased with himself. "Now that was terrific. How about a round of applause, angel lips?"

Neal glared at the man. "I'm kind of tied up at the moment," he replied, voice hoarse and low. "Though if you want to untie me, I'll be glad to give you a big 'bravo.'"

"Nah, I don't think so. I can't believe you don't enjoy daddy's songs…" Melbane chuckled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and waving them mockingly in the air. "Speaking of daddies, those lovely little circles on your thighs have really faded away, angel lips. I thought maybe I could freshen them up."

Neal's whole body stiffened as he stared at the pack, a wave of sickness rolling over him. He hadn't avoided smoking in prison just because it was a filthy habit. The memories were just too strong… So very, very strong for something that had happened so very long ago.

"_You think you can get away with whatever you want? I don't think so. It's time you see what happens when you're a bad boy."_

A man's face, square and stout with fuzz along the chin, grinning broadly down at him. Big hands waving the cigarette tauntingly above him.

"_You really thought she wouldn't tell me, you little bitch? I'll show you what happens when you run to mommy for help. Now hold still. Hold still! Hold still or I will break your fucking legs and we'll see how well you move then!"_

The glowing tip pressing into Neal's thighs. The rush of searing pain making him scream and scream and scream.

"Please," Neal whispered, hating himself for begging, but unable to stop the words from rolling out. "Don't. Don't do that."

Melbane laughed. "Oh, you're so cute when you beg. Do you beg for your little agent friend?" He reached out, fingering the small scars on the inside of Neal's legs. "Or is he super nice to you? Is your new papa the daddy you always wanted, angel? Does he take you places and hug you and make you feel all special?"

"Fuck off," Neal said in a shaky voice. "Peter is not my fucking father."

"Oh, but wouldn't you like him to be?" Melbane practically purred as he tapped a cigarette out of the box. "Nice daddy, be so good to you. But I bet you're real good to him, too, *Angel Lips*. Of course, that's all over, isn't it? Your new daddy knows what you really think of him now. He may have treated you like you were special before, but he knows the truth now. He knows you're not special at all. You're just a cheap whore, a dime a dozen on the street, and even after all daddy did for your worthless ass, you still turned on him in the end like a very bad boy. Because you are a very bad boy, aren't you, angel?"

Neal let out a whimper as the end of Melbane's cigarette flared up. The man took a short inhale then blew it out, making a face.

"Yuck. These things are seriously nasty. I love me some flame, but why people pay ten bucks a pack to suck smoke into their lungs is beyond even my understanding." He laughed again, the sound seeming more evil by the second. "But they make *awfully* fun toys."

"Please, please, please don't," Neal begged as Melbane leaned over him, dragging rough fingers along Neal's thighs.

"Aw, it's okay, angel lips. Daddy will take care of you… You've been a bad boy. It's your own fault. If you hand't been a bad boy, daddy wouldn't have to do this… Hush now…" He began to sing again, amusement tinging the words. "Smoky ciggy, hot ciggy, little ball of hurt. Sizzly ciggy, ouchy ciggy, burn, burn, burn. Little ciggy, flamey ciggy, burn, burn, burn."

"Will you stop singing nursery rhymes already?" Neal choked out, despite the utter panic building up in his chest.

"You don't like Sheldon Cooper? Don't believe in the big bang theory, perhaps?"

"What?" Neal asked in confusion, heart pounding too fast. "You're fucking crazy, you know that?"

"I *am* crazy," Melbane replied in a pleasant voice. "My mother had me tested. Hush now, angel, and hold still for daddy…"

Neal held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited and waited and…. He let out a loud scream as Melbane shoved the cigarette into his thigh, deep searing pain running through him as the man pressed against it unrelentingly. Finally he pulled it back, but the skin continued to sizzle. Neal whimpered and dropped his head down on the table with a bang, tears running down his face.

"Aw, that's a good boy," Melbane murmured as he reached forward and began to wipe away Neal's tears. Neal turned his face away, hiding it in his arm "Oh, you don't want daddy touching you? What a pouty boy. I guess we'll have to punish you some more."

That was all the warning he got before the cigarette came down once more. Neal let out a choked sob, the burned flesh aching relentlessly.

"This is fun. Maybe I'll make a pattern and when your agent-turned-papa finds your body, he can play connect the dots." Melbane chuckled. "That is, if there's anything left to find."

"Please, stop," Neal moaned, skin pulsing as the burns got deeper and deeper, flesh still sizzling long after the heat itself was removed. "Please, please stop."

"Oh, angel, how could I stop? I'm only *just* getting started."

o o o

The shop was dark and musky with the smell of old leather permeating it. When the lock on the door had refused to give, Peter had used a trash can to smash in the window, so the floor was scattered with broken glass. Well, what floor there was, anyway. The entire place was packed to bursting with hundreds of fur coats, hats, gloves, and even cowhide rugs.

"Dammit," Diana muttered as she looked around. "This place is a disaster area."

"Yeah," Peter agreed distractedly. "It's a mess." And it was… Except…

Peter bit his lip, brow furrowing slightly. There was something about this place, something he couldn't quite pin down. Lucy Furs. Belle Sebub. Judeo-Christian references to Satan. Peter turned slowly in a circle, eyes narrowing as he studied the shop. Something about it nagged at his mind, but he couldn't quite get a fix on it. It was at the very edge of his mind, something important, but he couldn't reach it…. Dammit! Peter wanted to scream, his pulse pounding rapidly as images of what Melbane could be doing to Neal raced through his head. He took a deep breath. He needed to be calm and focus. That was the only way he could help Neal. Focus. Lucifer. Beelzebub. Satan. Fire.

Peter began to turn again, carefully taking in the layout. To his far left was a rack of fur panties. After that, fur coats so rich they would have made June's closet look thrifty. Next were little coats for dogs, and along the back were thick stacks of uncut pelts in a heavy, cumbersome pile. Following those was a section of black rain boots topped with fur and an area made up entirely of items dyed red. Hats, coats, bags… each one was different, but they were all red. Then to his right was a section devoted to outdoor winter gear heavy duty enough to handle a trek through Siberia. Last, but not least, was a small checkout counter with a sign stating that they took commissions above it.

"What is it?" Diana asked as Peter scanned the room again, clenching his teeth in frustration as the answer danced along the edge of his mind. There was something about the layout of this place, something important. It might have looked like a mess at first, but Peter's gut was telling him otherwise. There was an order to Lucy Furs.

Lucy Furs. Lucifer's.

"It's hell!" Peter said, mind flashing back to his European Lit class at Harvard. Not something he'd ever dreamed he'd use, much less to save a life. Hell, he'd only taken it because the cute girl from his Accounting 301 class was in it. What had her name been? Sandra? Sally? Something like that. Whatever it was, God bless her and her fetish for Italian poetry.

"It's hell?" Diana asked, voice doubtful. "What are you talking about?"

"Look. See the sign over there?" Peter said, pointing to the register. "Commissions by Mr. Dan Tay. Dante! They laid it out like Dante's circles of hell! From the Divine Comedy." Peter turned back around. "See? The panties are lust, the fancy coats are gluttony, and the doggie outfits? Cerberus the three headed dog was in the third circle! Then the big stacks of uncut fur? In the fourth circle the greedy rolled heavy weights around. Then the black rain boots—in the river Styx people drown in black mud. Then all the red stuff—the river Plegethon is filled with blood! The cold weather gear is for the final circle, where Satan eternally flaps his wings, freezing everything."

Diana's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. These guys really are psychos." She paused, frowning. "But that's only eight circles. There are nine circles in Dante's hell."

"Exactly," Peter said, moving toward the corner that divided the rain boots from the red clothing. He knelt down, running his hands along the floor. "The City of Dis is missing. The sixth circle of hell, the one between the two rivers."

"You think their bunker is the City of Dis," Diana said, beginning to run her hands along the wall.

Peter nodded, heart beating fast as he tapped on the tiles, straining his ears for any sort of echo that might indicate there was something behind them. "I do. It's perfect. Dis is where the heretics who spoke against God burn eternally in flaming tombs. The bunker is like a tomb, Melbane's a pyromaniac, and everyone in his little group is an anarchist atheist." He brought his hand down on the next tile, pausing at the tinny sound that resounded. He looked up at Diana, equally excited and terrified. "Here. I think I found it. Help me get this tile off!"

Diana dropped down on her knees next to him and together they hoisted up the edge of the large stone tile. It slid out slightly, revealing a hinge and a small keypad. Peter tugged harder on the edge, but it refused to budge. Apparently they had attached it to some kind of metal plate.

Peter stared down at the hatch beneath them, fists clenched. "Dammit," he swore, staring hatefully at the small keypad. The lock wasn't exceptionally fancy like the ones at Melbane's house, but Peter had no idea how to override it. "It's a four number combination. Ten thousand variations."

Diana frowned, leaning in closer to inspect it. "Can we use a cellphone to overload it?"

Peter shook his head. "No. I've seen this lock before. It only allows you three tries then locks down from the outside for twenty-four hours. Running it through a program would just lock it up unless we happened to hit the code on the first three tries."

"Not good odds there," Diana said grimly.

Peter bent over, inspecting the keypad. "It looks like the number 3 has a lot of wear on it. And there's a little chip off of 7." Peter's brow furrowed as he ran the numbers through in his head. "It could be… D, E, F, P, Q, R, S—" He cut off, staring down at the lock in disbelief. "No way. It couldn't be. It's too easy." He paused. "But I guess it's worth a shot."

"What do you think it is?" Diana questioned.

Peter ran a hand nervously across his hair, saying a silent prayer as he began to punch in numbers. "3, 4, 7… 3." for a moment nothing happened, and Peter held his breath, waiting… After what seemed like forever it beeped and the small light next to the pad began to blink green. Peter let out a sigh of relief.

"Damn," Diana said, kneeling next to him. "How did you figure it out?"

"3, 4, 7, 3. It's 'fire,'" Peter replied, frowning deeply. "Come on, let's get this open."

The hatch was heavy, a thick steel that Peter could hardly lift. Obviously Melbane was strong. Diana slid down through the hatch and Peter followed, landing lightly on his feet onto a small staircase leading downward. "Okay," he said in a low voice. "We're going down, but we don't want to spook Melbane, not when he has Neal. We need to—"

A loud scream cut Peter off, making them both jump. It was high pitched but hoarse, definitely not the first scream of the night, and it was loud enough that they would have been able to hear it from above. The bunker must be soundproofed. Peter's stomach turned as another scream cut through the passageway before them. It took everything he had not to leap down the stairs and run to the rescue, not that he knew where Neal was or how he could help them. Melbane held all the cards and Peter didn't like it, he didn't like it one bit.

"Diana," he whispered, forcing his voice into an artificial sort of calm. "I'll lift you up and you close the hatch. The place is soundproofed. If we shut it, Melbane won't be able to hear the sirens if we do get backup."

Diana gave a short nod, stepping into Peter's clasped hands so he could hoist her up She pulled the heavy metal door shut behind them with a clang that made Peter wince. God he hoped Melbane hadn't heard that.

"Okay, come on, let's go," Peter whispered. They started down the staircase, Peter trying to walk as quickly and quietly as possible. The stairs were longer than he had expected. The bunker was very deep underground, maybe even below the sewers. If that was the case, no telling how big it was. After at least fifty or sixty stairs they finally came to a landing, but there wasn't a door, just two new staircases leading in opposite directions. What was this place, a fucking maze?

Peter pulled his gun from its holster, slowly peeking around one corner as Diana took the other.

"We're clear here," Peter said, holding the gun closely.

"Here too," Diana whispered back. "Which way do we go?"

Peter took a steadying breath as he looked back and forth. "We go—"

Another scream bounced through the bunker, carried from God knows where. The place obviously had good acoustics, because the screams seemed to fill the whole structure, leaving no hint as to what direction the sound was coming from.

Sweat trickled down Peter's face as he gripped his gun even tighter, stomach turning. If he chose the wrong direction, Neal could end up dead, but if they split up they would have no backup if one of them found Melbane. But he had to do something *now*, before he was forced to listen to another of those heart-wrenching screams. Visions of tears pouring down Neal's handsome face filled his mind. He had to make a decision *now.*

"You go that way," Peter said gruffly, hoping to God he was making the right choice. "I'll take the left."

Diana gave a short nod and started down the right staircase. Peter breathed in deeply as he started down the opposite way, trying to steady himself. It would be okay. He would find Neal, take him home, and everything would be all right. It would all work out—

Another scream echoed, hitting Peter like a slap to the face. God, this was all his fault. Why the hell hadn't he listened to Neal? Neal was a part of *his* team, was *his* friend. How could Peter have forced him into this?

Peter swallowed deeply as a soft light began to glow before him. A few more steps and he could see the end of the staircase, complete with an arched entry that looked worthy of a place in Dante's inferno. Peter was half surprised it didn't have 'Abandon All Hope' written across it.

"Please," Peter heard Neal's voice saying, hoarse and broken. He'd never heard Neal sound that vulnerable before. "Please, stop…"

"Aw, little boy is so scared," came Melbane's mocking response. Peter tightened the grip on his gun. "Poor baby… But don't worry. Daddy's here now. It sure took him long enough, didn't it? Maybe he wants to take a turn playing with you now?" A chuckle. "What a fun reunion. I'm even going to dress up." There was a loud clanking noise, like metal smacking against rock, and Neal made a terrified sound.

Peter took a deep breath as he flattened himself against the wall next to the door, planning to spring out on the count of three. One… Two…

"Oh, Daaaaddy, why don't you come out now? And I suggest you put down your little gun. I don't think it will be much help against my chosen weapon. Fire melts metal every time. Kind of like rock beating scissors, you know?"

Peter froze, shoulders tensing. No. There was no way. How could Melbane know?

"If you're wondering how I know you're there, there's a security pad that tells me when the entrance hatch is opened. Well, and also because I can see the front of your wingtips. A little sloppy for a Quantico grad, aren't you?"

Peter glanced down, swearing quietly as he saw the tip of his shoe peeking out around the corner. "Why the hell would I put my gun down?" Peter called out. "Fire has to be pretty damn hot to melt metal, Melbane."

Another of those horrible, crazy sounding laughs. "Which is why my World War II surplus flamethrower was such a good purchase. I did the restoration work myself. It's sort of like my baby. In fact, I probably love it about as much as you love Angel Lips here. It is heavenly isn't it, his pretty mouth? Do you enjoy it, Agent Burke?"

Oh, screw this. Peter swung around the corner, pointing his gun in a two handed stance in the direction of Melbane's voice. He realized in some small part of his brain that Melbane was still chatting away like there wasn't an FBI agent pointing a deadly weapon at him, but all Peter could process was the image of Neal, bound naked to a metal table in front of Melbane. His face was covered in tears and blood, and his ass was a deep red color. Neal's lip was trembling as he stared at Peter with something like disbelief in his eyes. It *was* disbelief, Peter realized as Neal mouthed the words 'you came' like it was some sort of miracle. Of course he'd come! Had Melbane really convinced Neal that Peter would ever, *ever* leave *his* friend to suffer? Didn't Neal know him better than that? Didn't he realize how much Peter loved him?

Of course he didn't. Why would he? Peter had never been brave enough to tell him, after all. The closest he'd ever come was calling him 'buddy' and giving him the occasional 'arm around the shoulders' routine.

"Oh, Agent Burke, are you listening to me?"

Peter's attention snapped back to Melbane, tearing his eyes away from Neal's battered face. This was all his fault. "Let him go," Peter said hoarsely, training his gun on Melbane's chest. "Now!"

Melbane let out a loud sigh. "No, you definitely weren't listening." He sort half-turned and Peter noticed the large pack on his back for the first time. It was a pair of metal cylinders that strapped over his shoulders with a thick tube running downward to hang off his belt. It looked heavy as hell, and pretty damn scary too. It was definitely military. Shit, did Melbane *really* have a flamethrower?!

"Like I said, my precious baby here," Melbane caressed the tube like it was a lover, "is World War II surplus. They hadn't really perfected the art of flamethrowers yet. In fact, it was brand new technology back then. Very… volatile." Melbane flashed a smile. "Kind of like me. You put a bullet in my chest from this range it will go right through me into these canisters and the spark of metal on metal is all that it will take to sent this whole place up in a fantastical flash of flame. So, unless you're interested in your personal meat being well done, I suggest you put down the gun."

"I don't think so," Peter said, lifting his gun a few inches, eyes locked on Melbane's face. "How about you let him go or I put one in your head? I'm pretty sure that your WWII surplus junk can handle that."

Melbane rolled his eyes and took three steps back, pointing the flamethrower's tube in Neal's direction. Neal cried out and began yanking madly at the ropes tying him down.

"The trigger in this is pretty touchy, too, Agent. How about you put your gun down or I burn your pet alive? Then the only thing you'll have to put on a leash is your actual dog, and we both know leashes are most fun with a person at the end." He stared threateningly at Peter. "Drop it, now, or your boy toy burns!"

"Please don't burn me," Neal moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please."

Peter swallowed hard at the desperate edge to Neal's voice. His mind raced as he tried to figure out what he could possibly do to get them out of this. Finally, seeing no other option, he bent over and set his gun on the floor, kicking it away.

"There," Peter said coldly. "I dropped my gun. Now stop pointing that thing at Caffrey."

"Oh, he's 'Caffrey' now, is he?" Melbane questioned as he lowered the flamethrower, an amused look on his face. "A little formal for the man you spend your days raping."

"Shut the hell up!" Peter snapped, a rush of rage coming over him. He was tired of this bastard's perverted crap. "I've never touched him like that, you sick fuck."

Melbane sighed loudly, an exasperated looking coming over his face. "Does *anyone* understand the meaning of 'existential'? It was speaking metaphorically, Agent." The man reached out and ran a hand through Neal's glitter filled hair, inducing a whimper.

"Don't touch him," Peter said in a threatening tone, causing Melbane to laugh.

"Oh, there it is. So protective of your property. You really don't like other men playing with your toys, do you, Peter? May I call you Peter? I think I'll call you Peter."

"He's not my property, Melbane, and he's not a toy, either."

"Really?" Melbane said, feigning surprise. "From the way you treat him, I never would have known."

God, Peter could really use some backup. Surely Diana realized by now that Melbane was on Peter's side of the bunker? Of course, for all Peter knew, this bunker could go on for eternity. Maybe he really was in hell. Seeing Neal's tear drenched face was close enough, anyway. Broken Neal, Peter's own personal hell.

"For the last time," he said, taking a small step forward. "I have never raped Caffrey."

"God!" Melbane shouted out suddenly, slapping Neal's ass as he did so. Peter gritted his teeth in anger. "Does nobody listen anymore?" He shook his head, disgusted. "I'm telling you, everything these days is one big lie. Like you, the esteemed Special Agent Burke, lauded hero pretending to be the good guy when, really, you get your joy from taking people down and ripping them apart."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter snapped. "You're the crazy one."

A twisted smile appeared on Melbane's face. "Maybe your lies have even managed to fool you. The easiest person to lie to is yourself, after all. But it's time for you to admit what you are, Peter. Take some time to think about the things you've done and how they've made others feel."

"I'm not lying to anyone."

Melbane reached out, stroking Neal's back. "Take little Neal here. Pretend for a moment that you're him, with his angel lips. Daddy used to fuck you up, then all the bad men did too. Finally you get away from the grasping hands…" Melbane dug his fingernails into Neal's back, making him whimper. "Then Mr. Superior Agent comes along on his high horse and sends you back to them. For four years they hurt you because of him. You never did *anything* to hurt anyone. Unlike him with his big gun, you don't even like violence! You'd rather run and hide than stand and fight anyway, because you're a cowardly bitch like that."

"Neal is anything but a coward," Peter snapped, anger surging through him. "You're the coward, Melbane, hiding behind your locks and your safe houses and your mind games."

"Then you see an out," Melbane continued as if Peter hadn't spoken. "You know Big, Bad Agent Man loved how it felt when he took you down, and you know he'd love to feel that rush every day. So you make a deal. You'll give yourself to him and he'll protect you from the pain you're trying to escape. But being with him brings new pain."

Peter's eyes dropped back down to Neal's battered face, feeling ill. Being around him *did* bring Neal pain. How could he have gotten him into this?

"Lots and lots of new pain. Every day you wake up heavy with the knowledge that you're a prisoner. No, more than a prisoner, because you don't just sit in a cell. You're a slave. *His* slave, and you're wearing his mark around your ankle. You get out of bed, you go to work, you do your best, but he never lets you forget. Every time you meet someone new he tells them what a bad boy you are, doing his best to make sure no one respects you."

"I respect him," Peter snapped, taking a step forward. "Neal, you know I respect you."

Neal didn't respond, just buried his face deeper into his arm.

"Liar," Melbane replied lightly. "You don't respect him. You demean him, degrade him, then use the fact that you saved him as an excuse. The daggers are cloaked, but they hit home every time. I watched you two, I followed you two. I *know*, Peter. There's no use pretending around me. You're big, strong Agent Burke and he's the worthless criminal who's lucky to be granted the honor of getting you your coffee."

"You don't know anything," Neal said suddenly, and Peter was surprised at the strength in his voice. The man turned his face up, glaring at Melbane angrily. "You don't know shit, Melbane. He's my friend."

Melbane's eyes dropped down, an amused look crossing his face. "Oh, he's more than your friend. You love him, Neal. You try and try and try to win him over, but you're the coward and the thief and the whore while he's the brave, honorable soldier, so it never works. And just like your daddy when you were little, he always has the perfect excuse to hurt you. 'Neal's been a bad boy!'" Melbane laughed. "For every happy hour you spend working together there's another where he's ripping you down in front of everyone, isn't there?"

Peter locked on Neal's big blue eyes, chest tightening at the pain he saw there. For a long moment they just looked at each other, then Neal turned his face away again, hiding his eyes, and a rush of guilt washed over Peter. Had he really done that to Neal? Was this really how Neal saw him?

"That's what I thought." Melbane was looking pleased with himself again. "He rips you down and you have to take it because that's his right. You're on his leash and, if you don't take it, he can send you to a much, much worse place—a threat that is forever lingering over your head." Melbane glanced up at Peter. "And you never miss a chance to remind him of it, do you Peter? Because you *like* to take him down a notch. It makes you happy to know that little Neal will go home, make his dinner, take a shower, curl up in bed, and think about how many times he bent over so you could fuck him up the ass that day. How many times you raped him. Because it is rape, even though Neal here," Melbane ran a hand through his hair, "would give it up to you in an instant if you asked. But you don't ask, you don't worry at all about how he feels or what he wants. You're too wrapped up in reminding everyone what a loser he is. And little Neal smiles and nods and laughs and says 'sir, yes sir', but it's definitely rape. After all, you don't care if he wants it or not and you do it to bring him down. That's what rape is really about, isn't it? The power over another person? Face it. You're a rapist, Peter. That's the truth, the truth you've tried so hard to hide from yourself. You take pleasure in making little Neal's shoulders hunch and his pretty smile fade away. Just admit it, Peter, admit what you are and I won't burn your pet up."

Peter's heart was pounding as he stared at Neal, blinking back tears. Was that really what he did, was that really what he was? Was it the truth? It must be the truth since nothing Melbane had said was a lie. Peter *did* enjoy reminding Neal of his place, but only in good fun and as a reminder that nothing good came from being bad. Except what if Neal didn't think it was good fun? What if Neal really felt that Peter… that he… Oh, God, Peter couldn't even think it.

"Well?" Melbane said, lifting the flamethrower threateningly. "You're pretty close, Peter. And like I said, this thing is volatile. I might very well burn you up too when I take down your toy. Admit it and we won't have to do this…"

Peter's mouth moved silently, not knowing what to say. Finally he spoke, voice hoarse. "Okay, I admit it. I… I treat him badly sometimes."

"You treat him like a whore," Melbane said flatly. "A whore that you can rape anytime. Say it, Peter! Say it or I'll burn him!"

"Oh, go to hell, Melbane!" Neal shouted suddenly, yanking madly on the ropes binding him down. "I am sick of your twisted shit! God, you make Freud look normal! *I'll* admit it—I kind of love, Peter, okay? And you know why? Because he's not a fucking monster like you are! Like any of them were! Out of all the friends I've ever had, Peter is the only one I trust. *That's* the truth. Maybe, once upon a time, I didn't trust him. Maybe, once upon a time in a motel far, far away, I was afraid of him. But I trust him now because he *earned* it!" Neal let out a short laugh. "Obviously it was deserved because Peter's here now. So you know what? Because I kind of love him, I'm shutting down this therapy session. Your online psychology degree has officially been revoked."

Peter let out a shout as Neal suddenly slid his weight toward one side of the table, yanking at the restraints as he did so. The movement was enough to tip the table over, sending him crashing to the ground. The edge of the table hit Melbane right in the groin, sending the man toppling down as well. It was like slow motion, watching his body fall slowly, slowly toward the concrete, Peter's stomach in knots as he waited for him to hit and show to the world just how volatile that flamethrower really was.

Finally Melbane hit and Peter's breath went out in a whoosh as no flames burst to life. The flamethrower's tube flew from Melbane's hand and Peter leaped forward, covering several feet in one step and coming down hard on top of Melbane. The man grabbed for the tube, grasping for the trigger, but Peter slammed an elbow in his face before he could reach it, then grabbed Melbane's right hand and twisted, cracking all the fingers at once. The man let out a scream, something that was rather satisfying after having heard Neal's cries echoing through the building. Before Melbane could try and grab the tube with the other hand, Peter took him by the hair and slammed his head back against the concrete floor once, twice, three times, then again and again and again until blood was running from his scalp and his features were slack with unconsciousness.

"Peter, Peter, that's enough!" There was a grinding sound as Neal used his weight to try and drag himself toward Peter, arms and legs still bound to the table. "Stop!"

Peter obeyed, letting Melbane's head fall to the concrete, fists still clenched in anger as he stared down at him. God, he wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in this sick bastard's head, to see the blood run and know that he'd never take another breath after what he'd done to—

"Peter," Neal's voice was small and hoarse.

"Neal," Peter said, crawling over Melbane's body toward the other man. He grabbed a knife that had fallen off Melbane's little accessories table and began sawing at the ropes on Neal's wrists.

"'M sorry," Neal said, tears running down his cheeks. "'M sorry. Please don't hate me."

Hate him? Why the hell would Peter hate him? It was Neal who should be hating Peter. The final rope gave way and Peter pulled the smaller man into his arms, wrapping him up tightly. "Are you okay?" Peter whispered, though it was obvious Neal was very much less than 'okay.'

Neal buried his face in Peter's chest, shoulders heaving as he sobbed.

"Shhh, it's okay," Peter murmured, rocking a little. "I've got you, buddy."

"Boss!"

Peter looked up at the sound of Diana's voice. She was standing just in the doorway, gun in hand.

"Diana," he said in relief, glancing over at Melbane. "He's got some sort of antique flamethrower. Get it the hell off of him and bind him up. He's out now for now, but I don't want to take the chance he'll wake up, not with this sicko."

Diana obeyed, making a quiet noise as she took in Melbane's battered face. It didn't phase her long, though, and after cuffing Melbane to a heavy pipe protruding from the wall, she began to cut the straps to his pack. When it was free she picked it up and carried it to the furthest corner of the room, setting it down carefully.

"Is Neal okay?" she asked as she moved over toward them.

Peter began to run a hand comfortingly up and down Neal's back. The man shivered in his arms. "I don't know," he said honestly. "And I don't care if the entire Metropolitan is on fire. Call this in and tell them to get the paramedics over here *now.* I don't want to move him too much without knowing where he's hurt."

Diana nodded, heading toward the door. "Got it. I'll be right back."

Peter turned his attention back to Neal, running his eyes across the man's naked body as he tried to assess the damage. Of course, with Melbane's twisted mind fucking, the damage was probably a lot more than physical.

"He'll always remember," came a sluggish, gravelly voice. Peter jumped slightly at the sound then looked up in disbelief as Melbane grinned a bloody smile at him from his place cuffed to the pipe. God, was the man indestructible? Peter had to have slammed his head into the ground ten, fifteen times and he was already awake. "I branded that cow with his master's name so he'd remember forever. Don't think you can make him forget." Apparently the effort of talking was too much, because with those words he passed out again, the man's head falling back against the wall with a clunking sound.

What the hell did that mean? He'd branded him? Peter hadn't seen any brand. But then, where would you brand someone?

Slowly, slowly Peter lifted Neal up. The man didn't seem to notice, was perfectly still actually, and Peter suspected that he'd given into the pain and the shock and finally passed out. Ever so carefully he manipulated Neal's body until he could see his ass.

Oh, God. Peter choked up as he found the name branded in elegant script across Neal's right buttock, wickedly red against his pale skin. A single tear slid down Peter's face as he pulled Neal close again, the letters as burned into Peter's mind as they were into Neal's ass.

AGENT PETER BURKE

So he'd remember forever. So that Peter could never make him forget.


	11. Chapter 11: Knight in Blazing Armor

**Title:** Burned  
><strong>Author:<strong> Amory Puck (**pucktheplayer**)  
><strong>Rating<strong>: NC-17  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Angst, Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, prostitution, mentions of underage prostitution, fire play. Peter/Neal (with Elizabethan consent!

**Author's Notes: **Last chapter guys! Finally, tis here! YAY! (BTW, the reference to Titus Andronicus actually does link to an earlier part of the story, but since it's probably been a long time since y'all have read the rest of the story, I thought I'd just point out that it's not me going TOTALLY insane. After all, I'm already totally insane and it's hard to go insaner... ;P) Hope you enjoyed the fic! Leave me a review and let me know! Kisskiss!

o o o

**Chapter 10: Knight in Blazing Armor**

o o o

"What are you doing? My friends who flies away so fast! My friend, a word: where is the Suit, your fair knight, to protect you?!"

Neal blinked tiredly, his head feeling like it was full of wool. The words seem to ricochet around his mind, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing. He thought he recognized the voice, but he wasn't sure. The world around him was gray, a forest of asphalt sliding in and out of focus as he craned his neck looking for the source of the voice.

His eyes finally found a figure, though it was fuzzy and out of focus. He squinted a little, and relief rose up within. It was just Mozzie, though, strangely enough instead of his usual trousers and cardigan combo he was wearing a toga, like he'd just stepped out of a bad frat movie, or maybe ancient Rome. Neal tried to cry out, but liquid filled his throat and he gagged.

Mozzie sprang forward, dropping to his knees on the ground next to Neal, a horrified look on his face.

"If this is a dream, wake me up! Tell me, beloved friend, what harsh angry fans have lopped and hewed and left you here without your two branches? Oh, those beautiful ornaments!"

Without these two branches? What the hell was he talking about, branches and ornaments? Was Neal a Christmas tree now? This made no sense. Neal looked down, then tried to let out a scream, but he could only gurgle.

Oh, his hands, his beautiful hands! All that was left were bloody stumps. He wonderful, talented hands. Gone.

"How could they have done this to someone as gorgeous as you? Every man in town wanted to lay in your bed? Why won't you speak to me?"

Neal stared up at Mozzie with wide eyes a sense of panic coming over him.

Beep beep.

Tears began to flow down Mozzie's face. "Oh God, the crimson river of blood like a bubbling fountain pouring out of your mouth!"

The crimson river of—no. No, no, no, no, no. NO!

What was left of Neal's tongue flapped as he tried once again to let out a scream.

Beep beep beepbeep.

"And now you turn your face away from me in shame. Someone has fucked you, and cut out your tongue so you can't tell me who!"

Snot and tears poured down Neal's face. No… This couldn't be happening… No. NO!

Neal sat up with a shout, heart pounding so fast he could hear it. Actually, he *could* hear it, beeping along with the flashes on a screen beside his bed.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

"Neal, you're awake!"

Neal let out a cry, looking around blindly and flinging his hands up to protect himself, cold sweat dripping down his spine. "Don't touch me!"

Peter took a stumbling step back, holding up his hands in the international sign of surrender. "Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you…" He smiled, but Neal couldn't miss the hurt in his eyes. Dammit. Five minutes awake and he'd already hurt Peter's feelings. Wasn't he just a doll lately?

Neal took a deep breath, collapsing back on the bed. "No… It's okay… I"m sorry… I was dreaming…"

"Oh," Peter said, relaxing a little. "What about?" He paused, then added quickly, "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Ever seen Shakespeare's 'Titus Andronicus'?"Neal questioned, taking a deep breath to try and steady his still pounding heart before twenty doctors descended on him and he got hauled off to the cardiac ward.

Peter frowned, a little wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows as he contemplated the question. "No, I don't think so…"

"Don't," Neal said shortly. "Trust me. Just… don't." He reached up and ran a hand through his hair. It felt sticky. "How long have I been out?"

"About twenty-four hours," Peter said softly, settling down in a chair by Neal's bed. "I've been here with you the whole time. They said you needed your rest, time to repair after all the shock, and that I should go home and sleep to, but I didn't want to leave you. Not all alone."

The words 'not again' hung unspoken in the air.

"What happened to Melbane?" Neal asked, inspecting the IV in his arm. A pain button. Nice. Neal punched it and clear fluid began to flood the little tube. Might as well use it while he had it. He knew from experience that all those burns we're going to take a good long time to heal.

"We took him down," Peter replied, voice cold. "Let him burn."

Neal winced at the wording. "Let's steer away from the fire metaphors for a few days, what do you say?"

Peter gave a soft laugh, nodding his head. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

Neal sighed, his mouth turning up a little at the edge as a nice, euphoric feeling sort of rushed over him. He should really hit that pain button more often. "I guess I better stay out of trouble, because if I end up in the same prison as Melbane, everybody will think I'm his bitch. You know, with his name burned on my ass and all," Neal joked feebly, clenching the cheek in question, then wincing at the sensation.

Peter's face went pale and he ran a hand nervously across his head, eyes flitting around the room like he was looking for any excuse not to meet Neal's eyes.

"What's wrong? What aren't you telling me?" Neal demanded, suddenly feeling sick. Was Melbane *not* going to prison? Was that psycho really going to be out there on the streets, waiting for the chance to jump him in the dark?

"Neal… about that… Melbane didn't brand you with his name." Peter shifted in his chair, looking like this was the last place in the world he wanted to be. He blurred out for a moment before coming back into view and Neal frowned. That was rather rude, going all blurry when Neal was trying to talk to him. He'd have to talk to Elizabeth about that. Rude Agent Burke.

"Well, I know he burned something down there. I can feel it." He let out a little giggle. "Was it 'slut'? It was slut, wasn't it? Oh, Melbane, you're such a joker. But hey, at least it's true! He could have put 'mail man,' and then where would I be? Everybody would think I'm postal!" Neal giggled again. "Get it? Postal?"

"You're not a slut," Peter said sharply, ignoring Neal's super funny joke entirely. Rude, *rude* Agent Burke. "Don't say that."

"I think we're past that now, Peter," Neal said tiredly, waving a hand around in the air, just because it seemed like a good idea. "I know what you heard. The secret's out. I am a slut. I'm a fucking whore. Have been my whole life. Just can't seem to escape it. Kneels for it Neal, baby…" He gave the man a bright smile. "Deep down, you sensed it too. You knew I was the right man for this part from the beginning. Didn't even have to think about it. Didn't even have to ask me."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, a pained look coming over his face, making Neal wonder if maybe the stick up his butt had given him a splinter or something. "Neal," he said softly, "I swear to God that is not why I asked you to do this op." He reached out, laying his hand gently on Neal's arm.

Neal reached out with his other hand, tracing along that hairy wrist. He was going to miss this, the casual intimacy. He really, really was. However the dice fell, he was gonna lose that. He'd told Peter, to his face that he wanted to be fucked by him. In the end, either Peter would take him up on the offer and those touches would never be casual again, or Peter would make it a point to keep his distance, and those touches wouldn't come at all. A lose-lose situation.

Stupid lose-lose situations. It was even a stupid word. 'Lose-lose.' Talk about fucking redundant.

It would be nice to pretend that there could be some kind of middle, that those touches might actually start to mean something, something other than sex. That those touches might mean that he cared. Neal was no fool, though. Peter had everything he needed in El.

Maybe Neal would get lucky and Peter would choose to make use of what he had. It would be better than some stupid ruse where they tried to go back to what they had been before. Neal disgusted himself, so God knew what Peter thought of him. A man like that couldn't work on equal terms with a man like Neal, not now that he knew the truth.

"It's okay," Neal said waving the whole silliness away as Peter took a moment to go blurry again. Ms. Manners needed to have a little chat with him! "I know how it is, Peter. I'm really sorry 'bout the things I said, you know, about you being like my dad or my sugar dad or my mean boss or whatever. I didn't mean them, I swear. You're a good man. You've always been good to me."

"But I haven't, have I?" Peter said, his voice cracking a little. "Always on you about your past, lording it over you, no matter what you did, like you weren't good enough. I… I hurt you. You said yourself you were afraid of me."

Neal giggled again. "Not your fault, Peter. You want to know the truth about big, brave Neal Caffrey? I'm afraid of everybody! So yeah, I was kind of afraid of you at first, because I didn't really know you. You probably don't know this, 'cause big, strong men like you usually don't, but there are a lot of guys out there who would have abused that power. I got a whole matchbook collection to prove it. Remember when motels gave out matchboxes? Ah, the olden days. But you never did. Mess with me, I mean, not collect matchboxes. Maybe you did collect matchboxes. You never messed with me, though, because you didn't know what I am."

"Dammit, Neal, will you stop putting yourself down!"

Neal blinked. He hadn't actually meant to say that last part out loud. Huh. That was weird.

"Tell me," Peter said suddenly, face growing serious. "Tell me, Neal. Tell me about your life. I want to know."

Neal's brow crinkled up. "What…? I… What do you want to know?"

"Start with your childhood. How did you get the burn marks on your skin?"

"Uh, *Melbane* gave me the burn marks, Peter," Neal said, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Remember?"

Peter scowled, shaking his head. "Fine, avoid the subject. I can't make you talk about it, though I think it might help if you would. How about this… How did you know that cop out on the street?"

Cop… Cop… What cop? Neal's brow furrowed as his suddenly sluggish mind worked to process the idea. Cop… Oh, yeah, Officer Daniels!

"Oh, that was Officer Daniels. He worked on the street where when I was fourteen guys would tell me they'd give me money if I sucked their dicks."

"Did you even know what that meant?" Peter questioned, looking disturbed.

Neal shook his head, feeling a little sorry for Peter. He sure was dumb. Poor guy. "Yes, Peter, I knew what that meant. I'd been doing it for years. My step-dad taught me! George. No… I'm Georgge. Steve. No, I'm Steve, too. Nick? No… Vincent? No, he's the one who liked it when I hid under his desk. Mike! That was it. Mike! Step-dad Mike. And Officer Daniels. He was a nice guy. Real nice guy."

"A real nice guy would have gotten you off the streets," Peter said roughly.

"Street kids aren't charity cases, Peter," Neal said. "I didn't want no help." He tried to cross his arms over his chest, failing when the IV tube tangled with his gown.

"Why wouldn't you want help?"

"Uh, maybe, because the so-called 'help' was usually just a one way ticket to giving it up for free." Duh, much? "Better to be on the streets and get paid than in a group home and have it taken from you." Neal popped his neck then hit the button on his little clicker again, smiling as another wash of happy flowed through him. "Can we stop talking about this? I really don't care if I have slut burned on my ass. I already have it carved there, anyway. Double the fun now!"

"Actually, Neal," Peter said softly, "Slut isn't what he branded on you." He reached out and touched Neal's arm again, stroking it gently.

"Well, then what did he put?" Neal asked, feeling a little lost.

Peter's face turned a rather unflattering shade of red. He looked like a tomato. Tomato Peter. Good thing El liked Italian.

"My name."

Neal blinked, lost. "You forgot your name?"

Peter let out a little laugh. "No, Neal. That's what he put on you. My name. Agent Peter Burke." He dropped his eyes, looking sad. Sad Peter. "I'm so sorry, Neal."

Neal shrugged. "Oh well. You already spend 24/7 breathing down my neck. I'm used to seeing you practically up my ass. Besides," he said generously, "now you can admire it while you fuck me."

"What?" Peter said, mouth dropping open. "What the hell are you talking about, Neal?"

Hm… these painkillers were reeeeally nice.

"Do you really expect me to believe that you're going to let this opportunity pass you by? I saw how you looked at me in that bar, Peter! I know how you feel about me now." Neal smiled brightly, though he had a strange feeling that if he didn't have a metaphorical umbilical cord running from him to a sack of morphine, this whole conversation would be a lot less happy. Maybe even teary. But who needed tears when you could have big smiles? "I knoooow, Peter," Neal crooned teasingly. "Don't gotta pretend know more. I know what you know I know I am. I saw you see it in that bar."

"So I think you're beautiful!" Peter snapped, face even redder than it had been before. Tomato head! "Guess what, wise guy? You *are* beautiful! You're fucking gorgeous! But that wasn't some new revelation I had last night in a bar. I've always thought you're beautiful!"

Beautiful? Had Neal missed a few lines of this conversation? Maybe he should stop hitting his pain button. Nah, what was the fun in that?"

"And, okay, maybe I can't help myself sometimes and I just *have* to touch you, but it would never go any farther than that! I know you're not interested in men, Neal, and now I definitely know why! Hell, if I'd been abused the way you were, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near a man, much less in bed with him." Peter made a frustrated sound. "But how you think I could *ever* use my power to force you to be with me… You know me better than that! I love you, and I don't hurt people I love!"

Neal stared at him for a moment, brow furrowing a little as he tried to process all that with his sluggish brain. "So… in that bar… You were thinkin' I was pretty?"

"What else would I be thinking about you?" Peter questioned, looking a little lost. Good. Now Neal wasn't the only one.

"That I'm a whore, obviously." Something clicked in his mind. "Wait, hold on, did you say that you *love* me? How… how can you love me?" Suddenly he didn't feel so high. In fact, from the tear running down his cheek, Neal had a feeling he was about to slide to the other end of the spectrum. Good bye happy drunk, hello melancholy. "But… I don't…"

"Neal, if you don't know I love you, then why did you say I'd be seeing my name?"

Neal sniffed, rubbing at his face with the palm of his hand as he tried to process that very complicated question. "What?"

"My name, on you. If you didn't know I love you, then why did you think I'd be seeing that mark? To see the mark, we'd have to be doing… that, and if it wasn't for love, why would we be, well, *doing that*?" Peter's voice was serious, and Neal had a feeling there was an importance to the question that he wasn't quite getting.

Neal lifted his head, tears brimming in his eyes. "Either way you're gonna hate me, but if we… do that… maybe you keep me around? If it's hate me and do me or hate me and get rid of me, I want the first one." He sniffled again, well aware that he sounded like a toddler, but too damn high to care. Fucking morphine.

"Hate you?" Peter sounded shocked, though Neal wasn't sure why. Of course he would hate him. Everybody hated people like him. Even he hated people like him. "Neal, I could never hate you. Why would I hate you?"

"I hate me." The words came out as a whisper, barely audible, but they were true. So, so, so true. "And it makes sense that way, you know it does."

Peter made a frustrated sound. "Neal, nothing you're saying makes any sense."

Neither did the way Peter was going back and forth between crispy and blurry, but Neal didn't get onto him for that! God, you always had to *spell things out* for Peter.

"You've always wanted me for the things I can do, but those are the same things you hate about me," Neal said, rubbing at his eyes again. "We're only friend 'cause I steal stuff, but stealing stuff is what you locked me up for. This is no different. Before you knew I was a crook, but you didn't know I was a whore. Now you know I'm a crook and a whore." He made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. "Congratulations, Mr. Peter Burke. You officially know all of Neal Caffrey's dirty secrets. Time to collect your prize."

o o o

""Congratulations, Mr. Peter Burke. You officially know all of Neal Caffrey's dirty secrets. Time to collect your prize."" Neal's voice cracked at the end and another tear trickled down his face, which he quickly wiped away with his shoulder.

Peter say back in his seat, staring in astonishment at the pale man laying in the bed before him. It was obvious that Neal was a little high, but the things he was saying, the twisted logic he was using… Under duress with a psychopath holding a rocket launcher to your head was one thing, but this little confessional… Was this really what suave, brassy Neal Caffrey thought about himself?

How could someone even bear to live if they believed the things he was spewing? Peter only wanted him around because he used to be a criminal, therefore Peter would fuck him for having been a whore? And, either way, Peter would hate him?

"And before you say it, I know, I know," Neal said, in a voice like he was talking to a three year old, "you would never force me to do anything. You don't have to force me, Peter. I'll do whatever you want."

Peter took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves as he figured out what he should say. A small part of him was furious that Neal would think, even for a second, that Peter was the sort of man who would abuse someone like this, but he knew it wasn't Neal's fault. Apparently, in Neal's experience, this was how the world worked.

The first record they had of James Bonds was at, what, eighteen years of age? Nineteen? Seven years later, Peter had finally arrested at twenty-six. Which meant he'd had seven years, out of thirty, to play the upscale, classy conman. That twenty-three years as either that boy on a street corner or that man in a prison. After that had come three years spent with Peter, Neal doing his best to hide his troubled past as the FBI used him for his conman skills, honestly believing that, if it came up, Peter would use him for not so widely touted abilities, too.

A few days ago, Peter had been shocked that Neal would think for an instant that he would be pimped out for some case. Now he was beginning to see how, to Neal, it was the obvious conclusion.

"I want you to listen to me, Neal," Peter said, holding out his hand. Neal studied it for a moment then slowly took it, a slightly distrustful look on his face.

"I'm listenin'," Neal said, slurring the last word a little. If Peter wanted to get this out, he'd better do it fast, because he had a feeling that his partner was going to be out in a few minutes. Peter squeezed the other man's hand comfortingly.

"I am going to tell you the honest truth now, because you were right—I *have* been holding some things back. But not the things you think."

Neal's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, big blue eyes focused on Peter.

"Awhile back, I realized that I loved you. Actually, El realized it and pointed it out to me. But I knew you weren't interested. Why would you be, ladies' man?" Peter flashed a grin and Neal gave a feeble smile. "When this case came around, I never for an instant considered that there was any relation to your past. If I had, I never would have asked you to do it. But the thing is, it doesn't matter now, because I don't care what you did, Neal, and I definitely don't hate you. I *love* you."

Neal made a small sound and Peter squeezed his hand again.

"Yes, I want to be with you. But you don't need to be afraid. It's not going to happen, because *you* don't want to be with *me.* The Bureau does need you for your know how, but that's not the reason that we're friends. If you could never work another case, you would still be my best friend, and I would still love you."

A tear fell down Neal's cheek and he reached up, dabbing at his eyes.

"So please, please, Neal, stop trying to work what we have out in your head, because you're turning it into something its not. Something that doesn't even make sense. Something built out of years of horrible things happening to you. Not everything in the world is horrible, and not everyone has an agenda. I *swear* to you, Neal, that I will never, ever make you do anything you don't want to do. I am not your master, whatever twisted psychological bullshit Melbane was spewing. I am your partner. *Partner,* Neal. That means we're equals. It means we can always go to each other for help, but we don't control each other's lives."

"But you do," Neal said, tightening his grip on Peter's hand. "I belong to you. And I don't blame you for that, because it's my own fault. I got myself here. But why pretend pretty things that aren't true? There's no point in deluding ourselves. We both know that you can have anything you want from me."

"But don't you see, buddy?" Peter said urgently. "You're the one who's deluded! I can't have anything I want from you, Neal! There are very strict rules about relationships between Feds and CIs, rules about what I can and cannot do. If I hurt you, Neal, you can report me, and I'll lose my badge."

Neal let out a huff of laughter, a bitter look in his eyes. "Please. Nobody would believe me."

"You think?" Peter questioned. "Because I'm pretty sure they would. Tell me, Neal, who told you they wouldn't believe you?"

"Trust me, Peter, they never believe the whore," Neal said flatly, shaking his head. "I *know.* Why do you think I had to leave home? Even my mom didn't believe me. I told her he made me, but she didn't believe it. I told her." The last words came out more as a whine.

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. No wonder Neal thought nobody cared. What kind of mother didn't protect her own son?

"Hell, maybe I did come on to him," Neal muttered, rubbing tiredly at his face. "Honestly, I don't even remember any more. It was too long ago. Maybe she was right not to believe me. Maybe… Maybe I lied. Everything he said came true, after all. I ended up a whore. Said I'd be one, now I am… Musta been me. Prolly was me…" His words were starting to slur together.

Peter made an idle note to find a certain bitch in Albuquerque and give her a piece of his mind. Or, better yet, a warrant for her arrest. Was their a statute of limitations on aiding child molestation?

"I don't think so, Neal," Peter said giving Neal's hand a squeeze as his eyelashes fluttered. "Stay with me, buddy. Look, I know you're tired, and I know you're in pain, but I just want you to realize… I'm not going to hurt you, Neal."

"It's not true, you know."

Peter let out a sigh. "Neal, I swear it is. I'm not going to—"

"No, I mean what you said about me not wanting you." Neal shook his head as if to clear it, blinking rapidly. "Sorry, I'm feeling a little… funny. What I meant is that I do want you. I've wanted you for a long time. I've never wanted a man before, but I want you. I imagine it sometimes. I don't usually imagine stuff like that. I… I love you, too. I dunno why you love me, but I love you…"

Peter swallowed hard, tears welling up in his eyes. "Oh, there are so many reasons to love you, buddy."

"Maybe… maybe when I get out of the hospital we could… I don't know… Talk about it some more?"

Peter smiled at the hopeful lilt to the words. "Yeah," he said softly, "we'll talk about it some more. Why don't you get some rest now? You look pretty tired."

"Yeah, I am…" Neal said, lashes fluttering. "Thank you. You know, for saving me."

"You don't have to thank me for that, buddy. It was my pleasure." Peter bent forward slowly, smiling down at the man before gently touching their lips together. Neal gave a happy sigh as he slipped away into unconsciousness.

o o o

"Hey, everybody! The man of the hour is officially back!" Neal flashed a grin at the small crowd of agents, then spun around in his chair, tossing his hat into the air then catching it again and flipping it on his head. Applause filled the room, along with a few overly dramatic groans from Jones. Neal laughed. "You know you missed me, Clinton!" He flashed the man a grin. "You know you did."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. It was a little *too* peaceful around here without you," Jones admitted, tossing him a grin in return. If there was one good thing about being surrounded by overly masculinized frat boys, it was their willingness to pretend as if awkward and embarrassing moments where you learned way more than you ever wanted to know about the other person had never happened at all. Considering the sort of troglodytes the FBI hired, he was free and clear!

"Hey Neal, can I talk to you?" a feminine voice said, and Neal let out a sigh. Apparently the frat boy did not apply to the women.

"Sorry, Diana, got a new case to look over, no time for a heart to heart," Neal said, avoiding her eyes as he picked up a random file off his desk and waved it around as evidence.

"That's your time sheet folder," she said dryly, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring down at him. Neal sighed again.

"Fine, fine, okay. What do you want to talk about?" Neal had a feeling he already knew, but he'd been working really hard to camouflage the elephant in the room, and he wasn't about to be the one to bring it up.

"You think we could step outside?"

Oh yeah. Definitely a conversation about Mr. Elephant's big fat ass.

"I dunno, Diana—"

"Come on," she said brusquely, reaching down and yanking him up by his tie. "There's a new cafe around the corner that I want to try."

o o o

"Hey, honey. Whatcha looking for?"

Peter started at the voice, automatically trying to rise and managing to slam his head against his desk as he did so. "Dammit," he muttered, grimacing as he rubbed at the back of his head.

"Oh, ouch, that looked like it hurt… Sorry, sweetie," El said in a sympathetic voice.

"Not your fault," Peter said as he crawled out from under his desk, smiling up at his wife. "Just trying to to fix one of the legs. It's wobbly."

"Oh, so you weren't hiding from Neal's welcome back party, then?" she asked innocently, giving him a knowing look.

Peter sighed and stood up, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. "Okay, okay, you got me. Is it over?"

"Yup. Champagne was popped, Neal tap danced on a table, Clinton wore a sparkly purple tank-top as a hat, and Hughes presented Neal with a certificate of appreciation. It was all very nice. Too bad you were too busy to come, but we all know that wobbly desks come first."

"Oh, shut up," Peter mumbled, face turning red. "You know why I didn't go, El."

"I know, hon," she said, reaching out to pull him in for a hug. "But you can't hide from him forever."

"I know, " Peter groaned, rubbing at his eyes. "But it's just so *weird.* It's as if nothing happened at all. A week in the hospital, a week of leave, then BOOM, old Caffrey is back as if the past few weeks were just a dream. After all we went through, after all the things that were said and done… I expected things to be different, but they're not." He sighed. "I know I should be pleased. It's selfish of me *not* to be—why shouldn't I want Neal back to his old self? I can't help it, though. In fact, it's driving me crazy, but I don't know what to do."

"So hiding under your desk during his welcome back party was the best thing you could come up with?" El asked, smirking a little.

"Pretty much," Peter said with a sigh. "God, El, it's like he has amnesia! We had one heart to heart in the hospital then, suddenly, he doesn't want to talk about it and if I even try to bring it up he changes the subject. Hell, maybe he *does* have amnesia. He was pretty high when we talked at the hospital. Either way, I guess I should just go with it. After all, who am I to dredge up old memories? The problem is, I don't want to 'just go with it.'"

"Then you shouldn't," El said simply, perching herself on the edge of his desk. "Talk to him. Have a little one on one time. You haven't really had a chance to do that since that first night, Mozzie sleeping at the hospital and all, and then June taking up residence at his bedside once he got home. Talk to him, tell him how you feel about him."

"And have him think I'm trying to pressure him into doing something he doesn't want to?" Peter shook his head. "No way. Better to let a sleeping dog lie."

El reached out, playing idly with the paperweight on his desk. "Peter… Have you ever thought that maybe he's avoiding the subject because he's afraid? Neal said himself that he loved you, and that he wanted to do something about it. Maybe he's afraid that if he talks to you about it, he'll find out you didn't mean what you said. After all, it's got to be pretty hard for a man who flat out admits he doesn't love himself to believe that someone else loves him."

" I don't know, El," Peter said with a sigh. "I really don't think it's my place to bring it up. If Neal wants to be anything other than friends, he can come to me."

El hopped down off the desk, shaking her head. "Men. You are so stubborn. But fine, whatever you think it best." She paused. "Hey, the welcome back cake was nice, but I could use some lunch. How about we hit that new cafe around the corner, Mr. Burke?"

"That sounds fantastic, Mrs. Burke," Peter said as he linked his arm with hers, glad that little conversation was over and done with. It was so nice to be married to someone who understood.

o o o

"Nice place," Neal said as he glanced around the little cafe. "Think the food's any good?"

"Don't worry," Diana said dryly. "Their salad isn't from a bag. I called ahead and checked."

Neal put a hand over his heart, feigning relief. "Oh, thank God."

Diane chuckled, pointing to a table in the corner. "Come on, let's sit over here."

"Very private," Neal said, raising an eyebrow. "Agent Barrigan, are you planning to propose to me?"

Her loud snort was answer enough. "Come on, sit your fancy ass down. I want to talk to you."

Neal rolled his eyes as he settled into one of the seats. "Yeah, I got that notion when you were dragging me through the Federal building by my tie."

"Ties make good handles," Diana said with a shrug, unfolding her napkin. "If you don't like it, don't wear them."

"So," Neal said as he settled his own napkin in his lap. "Might I ask what this little adventure pertains to? Not that I don't adore the chance to spend some one on one time with you, though I wonder if Christy may get jealous…" He wagged his eyebrows comically.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure she knows she has nothing to worry about," Diana said with a chuckle. "But," she added, voice turning serious, "I think we should get down to business."

"Business it is," Neal said, picking up the menu.

"You're messed up, Caffrey, and you need to deal with it."

Neal's eyebrows shot up, mouth dropping open a little. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, please, don't sit there acting like you don't know what I'm talking about. I was there that night, I saw what went down, and I understood it a lot better than those men. In fact, I have intimate knowledge."

Neal's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."

"When I was fifteen, one of my family's bodyguards raped me. Been dealing with it ever since. It was especially fun when I came out as a lesbian and my mom insisted that my sexuality was just a byproduct of what happened to me. A real riot being told your entire lifestyle came from one man's misplaced dick."

Neal cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. This was not a conversation he had very often… "Wow. I'm so sorry, Diana. That's wrong. I mean, both things are wrong, what the bodyguard did and your mom about you being gay. Did they arrest him?"

"Yeah they did," Diana said, taking a sip of her water. "But that didn't stop him from showing up in my nightmares. Look, I don't know what it's like to be so poor that selling your body is what you have to do to survive, but I do know what it's like to be forced into having sex with someone. I know the guilt that comes with it, and the blame, and the shame, and the confusion. I know what it's like to hear person after person tell you it's not your fault, and to not believe a single one of them. To constantly be telling myself, I should have locked my door. I shouldn't have flirted with him in the hall the day before. I shouldn't have been wearing that nightie. I should have yelled for help." She shook her head. "I didn't even yell, can you believe that? I just laid there and cried. Did you yell, Neal?"

Neal cleared his throat, more than a little uncomfortable with this topic. "I didn't have any reason to yell, Diana. I told them they could do it."

"Doesn't matter," she said with a shrug, as if that was the final word. "You were a kid. It was wrong. They were bad men, all of them, and it wasn't your fault. Not a single time was it your fault. But I know you don't believe that."

"Because it's not true," Neal said coldly, annoyance flaring up. Who did this woman think she was, telling him about his own past?

"Yes it is, and you need to learn to believe that. Oh, there will always be slivers of doubt. Hell, every now and then I even find myself wondering 'was I really born this way, or was it that night'? Which is insane, because I've always been a lesbian, and I know that. But mostly I know: I did nothing wrong. It was all on him."

"I *have* been raped, Diana," Neal said cooly, "though I hold some of the blame since I put myself in bad situations and that is the only reason it happened. But selling my ass to strangers is not rape."

"It is when you have no other choice. Prostitution is illegal for a reason, Caffrey, and it's not for the john's protection. Prostitution is illegal because it is an abuse of power, just like rape. When you're having sex with someone because you have no other viable choice, that's rape, Neal. And it's not your fault."

"I don't believe that," Neal said shortly, surprised at his sudden rush of anger toward Diana. She was only trying to help him, but dammit… It *had* been his fault. He put himself out on the street. Nobody did it for him. How was that possibly not his fault? And yeah, okay, he'd been a little kid. And yeah, okay, the guys who'd picked him up had been sick perverts old enough to be his dad. That did not clear him of all charges. He'd taken their money. "I'm sorry, Diana, but I don't believe that."

"I know," she said in a calm voice, giving him a tight smile. "And that's why you need to get help. Because until you do, you're going to continue to live life in fear. You're going to continue to question everyone and everything that comes along, and you're never going to be able to trust anyone, and you're going to be miserable for the rest of your life."

Neal stared at her for a long moment then dropped his head with a sigh, the anger going out of him in a whoosh. "I know," he said, sounding defeated. "I so know, Diana. *Logically,* I know. If I put anybody else in the position I was in, then I'd agree with you one hundred percent. Logically, I do know. Which is why I'd rather not talk about it. Because emotions aren't logical and if I start thinking about it, any of it, and logic goes out the window." He looked up, locking eyes with her. "So please, please, can you let it go? For me? So that I can at least pretend that I'm not a wreck? Please?"

Diana nodded slowly, not looking particularly happy, but not seeming upset, either. "Okay, Neal. If that's what you want, then that's what I'll do. We'll never talk about it again. But I think there is someone you *do* need to talk to."

Neal seriously doubted it, but as a man who liked his balls attached to his body, he decided to play along. "Yeah?" he said tiredly, "and who is that?"

"The man who just walked in the door."

o o o

"Wow, this place is pretty fancy," Peter said, raising an eyebrow at the rather elaborately decorated room.

"Just because their salad doesn't come in a bag doesn't make it fancy, hon," El said with a little laugh, and Peter shot her a dirty look.

"You think they have deviled ham?"

"I think my nose can't stand you finding out," El replied, then suddenly pointed off across the room. "Hey, look over there!" She said, smiling widely. "It's Neal and Diana! What a coincidence!"

Peter followed her gaze to the corner of the room where, indeed, Neal and Diana were seated together at a table. Coincidence? This was so not a coincidence. Women. Can't live with 'em, can't get dry cleaning back without 'em.

As if on cue, Neal turned his head, his surprise obvious as he latched gaze with Peter. Behind him, Diana leaned back in her chair, smirking triumphantly.

They had totally been played.

Peter's eyes narrowed as he glared down at his wife. "You set me up!" he accused, sticking a finger in her face. "I cannot believe you set me up. I trusted you, and you set me up."

Sorry, sweetie," El said with a sly smile, "but it's for your own good." She grabbed him by the arm, practically dragging him in the direction of Neal's table.

"Uh-uh, no way," Peter said, digging in his heels. "I told you, I don't want to be the one to stir things up."

El let out an irritated sigh. "Don't you get it, Peter? Ignoring what happened is not helping Neal. It's ripping him apart! Everyone can see it." She paused, the conceded, "Okay, not everyone, but Diana and I can see it, even if all you manly men can't! Comes with being female, I guess. The magical ability to sense when someone's miserable inside."

"El," he said in a low voice, drawing her in closer, "I really don't want to do this."

"Honestly, I don't care what you want," his wife retorted, making his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Not the usual answer from his sweet honey. "I care that every time I see Neal, he flashes me a big smile, but when I look into his eyes, I can see that he's crying inside. He needs your help, hon." She reached out, cupping his face in her hands. "Please, honey," she whispered, staring deep into his eyes. "Please, just talk to him. For me?"

Peter swallowed hard, glancing nervously back at the table. Neal was staring at his plate like it held the answers to the universe, shoulders stiff and back hunched, like he thought he was about to be jumped from behind, face pale as ghost. Definitely not the happy go lucky guy he'd been half an hour ago when he and Jones had been belting out a poor rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' In fact, he looked pretty damn miserable, just like his wife had said.

Peter let out a sigh. "Okay, okay, I'll go talk to him. I can't avoid him forever anyway. But I'm not going to bring up things I know he's not comfortable discussing."

"Fine," El said, giving him a soft smile. "But don't avoid talking about things just because they make *you* uncomfortable, either, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Peter muttered as he pulled away from her, heading over to the little table. Diana stood, holding out her napkin.

"Here you go, Boss. I'm headed back to the office. Got to take another look at the Yemin case."

"Don't think I'll forget that you helped set me up," Peter said sourly as he took the napkin and sat down in the chair she'd just vacated. "You will *so* be making up for this in paperwork."

"Oh, I'm terrified," Diana replied, smirking. She reached out and gave Neal's shoulder a friendly pat. "You boys have a nice chat."

She walked off and an awkward silence fell over the table as Peter fiddled with his napkin and Neal inspected his silverware. Napkin arranged, Peter moved on to his own silverware, since Neal seemed to find it so fascination. A nice fork, well cast, with good, sturdy prongs—oh, this was ridiculous. Peter took a deep breath.

"Neal, we need to talk about—"

"Peter, I wanted to say—"

They both stopped, looking at each other in embarrassment.

"You go first," Neal said after a moment.

"No, no, you go ahead," Peter replied quickly.

Neal breathed in deeply then let it out with a whoosh. Apparently Peter wasn't the only nervous one here.

"Okay," he said slowly, sort of playing with the word. "First off, I want to say that I'm sorry for what happened that night… and for the things I said at the hospital, too."

Peter raised an eyebrow. So he *did* remember their little drug-induced chat in the ER. Good to know.

"I you must have been pissed off, me talking like I thought you'd sneak into my room at night like the oogey boogey man or something." Neal let out an embarrassed little laugh, shaking his head. "Melbane really got into my head. He was Freud on fire, I guess you could say."

"You weren't the only one," Peter said quietly. "Man, am I glad that psycho's off the street."

Neal gave him a tight smile. "Yeah, me too. Thing is, you're a good man, and I know you'd never hurt me. This probably seems weird to you, 'cause everybody likes you and you have so many friends…"

As if people didn't like Neal Caffrey? The man collected friends like dryers collected lint.

"…But you're honestly the only person I trust. I didn't even trust Kate like I trust you. I didn't mean the things I said that night, and I know you didn't, either. Or I hope you didn't, because you're definitely not a rapist, Peter. More like a knight in blazing armor."

Peter chuckled. "I don't know about that. Besides, I thought we were about the fire references for awhile."

Neal gave a small smile then said, "You are though. It's what you do. You save people." He paused, dropping his eyes to the table. "I am glad Diana and El arranged this, though, because there is something I should say, so that it's out there."

Peter swallowed hard, butterflies dancing in his chest. "Oh?"

Neal looked up, latching into him with those intense blue eyes. "Your secret's safe with me, Peter. I'll never use it against you, hell, I'll never even bring it up. It's my fault, anyway. Say what you like, there must be something about me that draws them in. This isn't the first time I've been that guy who ruins lives by being the one in the middle. Call it seduction, call personality, hell, call it being a whore, but you got caught in it and I'm sorry. We can deal with it however you want. Pretend it never happened. Remember it when you want to, pretend it never happened the rest of the time. It's up to you. But whatever we work out, I promise, I won't let it hurt you. And if, somehow, someone does find out, I swear I'll take all the blame."

Peter stared at him for a long moment, not sure how to respond. Finally he said, "Neal, please tell me you're not talking about what I think you're talking about."

"I'm not talking about anything," Neal said. "Because nothing happened. I keep my promises, Peter."

Peter swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe as the image of a drugged up Neal, tears running down his face, wondering aloud if he'd seduced his bastard of a step-father after all, flashed through his head. Oh, hell no.

"Neal," Peter said sharply, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. Neal flinched a little at the touch, and Peter forced himself to relax. "You need to listen to me, okay, buddy? All that stuff you just said? You need to wipe it away, okay? You didn't do anything to make me want you, okay? I wanted you a long time before this whole mess. And I don't want to pretend it never happened. I'm going to tell you something right now, something I mean with all my heart, and you can sing it to the mountains if you like, because I'm not ashamed of it and it's not some dirty secret. Are you listening to me?"

Neal licked his lips, looking nervous. "Yeah, I'm listening…"

"Good," Peter said. "Then hear this. I love you, Neal. I love you."

o o o

"Are you listening to me?" the intense look on Peter's face soft of made Neal want to melt into the ground. The man was obviously furious about something, Neal had obviously done something very, very wrong, but he didn't know what.

He thought he'd covered all the bases, making it clear that he took full responsibility for the insanity he'd lured Peter into that night at the hospital as well as flat out stating that they could pretend it away forever or, if preferred, they could pretend it away in the daytime and Peter could have his pleasure at night. Metaphorically, anyway. It wasn't like it had to be at nighttime or anything. In fact, with their schedules, daytime rendezvous would probably be easier.

Neal must have missed something, though, because it was obvious that Peter was not pleased.

"Yeah, I'm listening…" Neal said when it became obvious that Peter was waiting for some kind of response.

"Good," The man said, staring at Neal with hard eyes. Neal's stomach turned a little at the sight. "Then know this."

Neal licked his lips, trying to look calm. Whatever Peter had to say, it couldn't be that bad…

"I love you, Neal. I love you."

Neal blinked. "What?"

"I love you," Peter said urgently, leaning forward and reaching out to take Neal's hand in his, squeezing it like he had that night in the hospital. "I love you, Neal, and I don't care if the whole world knows it, because it's nothing to be ashamed of."

Okay… this was not was he had expected… Neal shook his head, feeling like he'd just been dropped in another world. "What are you talking about, Peter?" he asked in disbelief. "You're married! To a really awesome woman, no less. And you're telling me you love me and you don't care who knows? You've lost your mind."

"Did you not notice who brought me here, Neal?" Peter questioned. "El has been on my butt for the past two weeks, wanting me to come talk to you. I didn't want to, because I didn't want to bring up things that might make you feel like I was pressuring you to be in a relationship with me. Because if you don't want this to go anywhere, it won't, I promise you that. And *I* keep my promises, too. So know this, Neal: What happens from here is up to you. We can go back to being friends, something I am perfectly happy with, or we can see what else we can make this friendship into. Either way, it's your choice, and I will honor your decision one hundred percent."

"So…" Neal said slowly, pieces starting to click into place. "That's why you've been avoiding me? Because you were afraid I'd feel like you were pressuring me to have sex with you?"

Peter cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "I like to think of it more along the lines of dating, but, yeah, pretty much."

Neal shook his head, letting out a little laugh. "I thought you were avoiding me because you were embarrassed about me coming on to you in the hospital and were afraid I'd tell someone and you'd get blamed for it."

"Coming on to me in the hospital?" Peter said, brow wrinkling up. "You didn't come on to me in the hospital, Neal. If anything, I came on to you. But mostly we just talked."

"I remember kissing you," Neal said quietly. "And I remember thinking about how I always end up seducing the people around me and then somebody gets hurt." A stab of pain cut through him.

"Oh, Neal," Peter said softly, using his thumb to stroke the back of Neal's hand. "That… That wasn't about us. And it's not right, either. People make their own choices. You're not some kind of incubus, drawing people in. You just happen to be an attractive, nice guy that plenty of people like. But even if you *had* 'come on to me,' as you put it, that doesn't make you responsible for *my* choices. You're not to blame for what other people do, Neal, as much as you may not believe that." He chuckled. "And just so you know… I was the one who kissed you."

Neal let out a huff of laughter, eyebrow shooting up. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Peter said, giving him a lopsided grin. "And if you want, we could try it again…"

Neal stared at the other man. Peter was so handsome, those roguish looks perfect for a knight, but, more importantly, Neal couldn't imagine anyone else's arms feeling safer than Peter's. "You know what?" he said coyly, giving Peter a sly smile. "I think I'd like that. I think I'd like that very much."

Neal leaned forward and Peter met him in the middle, lips touching gently together. The fear was there, like it always was, but there was something new, too, something warm and safe and exciting, and Neal had a feeling that, eventually, it would conquer all. It would take some work but maybe, just maybe, he and his knight in blazing armor could live happily ever after…

**THE END**!

_If you enjoyed it, leave a review and I'll love ya forever! ;) _


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